UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


THE 


LAMPLIGHTER  PICTURE  BOOK. 


BOSTON: 

PUBLISHED   BY   JOIIX    P.   .IKWF/TT    AND    f'OMPAXY 

VI.  I.  A  N  I),     OHIO: 

JEWETT,    PROCTOR,   AND    \\ORTHINGTON. 

NEW  YORK:    SHELDON,  LAMPORT,  A M»    KI.AKKMAV. 

1856. 


^^^^^^^^^ 


THE 


LAMPLIGHTER  PICTURE  BOOK, 


V  OR   THE   STORY   OF 


UNCLE  TRUE  AND  LITTLE  GERTT. 


WRITTEN  FOR  THE  LITTLE  FOLKS. 


BY  A   LADY. 


BOSTON: 


I  PUBLISHED  BY  JOHN  P.  JEWETT  AND   COMPANY. 

CLEVELAND,    OHIO: 
JEWETT,   PROCTOR,   AND    WORTHING  TON. 

NEW  YORK  :    SHELDON,  LAMPORT,  AND  BLAKEMAN. 

1856. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  bj 

JOHN  P.  JBWBTT  AND  COMPANY, 
In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts. 


STEREOTYPED  AT  THB 
BOSTON    STEREOTYPE    FOUNDRY. 


incle  Cnu  KB*  little 


INTRODUCTORY   STANZAS. 

LISTEN,  children,  to  the  story 
Which  I  now  relate  to  you, 

How  forlorn  and  homeless  "  Gerty  " 
Found  a  friend  in  "  Uncle  True." 

Gerty  -was  an  orphan  lonely, 
Never  meeting  kindly  smile, 

Which  from  loving  spirits  only 
Can  the  soul  of  grief  beguile. 

In  the  far-famed  Tri-mount  city 
Scenes  of  sadness  have  transpired  : 

Not  alone  by  little  Gerty 
Is  the  telltale  muse  inspired. 

There,  alas !  the  foe  of  freedom 
Captured  once  his  trembling  slave, 

Placed  on  him  again  those  fetters 
Far  less  welcome  than  the  grave. 

There,  too  oft,  the  bondman,  seeking 
Freedom's  boon,  like  Noah's  dove 

Found  no  resting-place  of  safety, 
None  to  cheer,  and  none  to  love. 

Better  days,  perchance,  are  dawning 

For  the  weary  fugitive  : 
Now  the  lark-song  of  our  morning 

Is,  "  Let  all  in  freedom  live." 


->->V --r^-^T-rv-v-^-rV i-rvr^"— 

.       <t 

UNCLE    TRUE   AND    LITTLE    GERTY. 


Sad,  indeed,  was  little  Gerty  ; 

Not  a  friend  seemed  she  to  know  ; 
Cruel  blows,  and  words  as  cruel, 

Filled  the  cup  of  Gerty's  woe. 

All  our  blessings  are  God-given, 
Ever  numerous,  ever  new, 

And,  at  last,  as  if  from  heaven, 
Came  to  her  good  "  Uncle  True." 

God  is  watching  o'er  each  sufferer 
With  an  eye  that  never  sleeps, 

Sees  the  slave  of  bonds  so  weary, 
Sees  when  he  for  freedom  weeps. 

And  as  he  to  little  Gerty 

Gave  a  friend  so  warm  and  true, 
So  may  each  in  slavery  sighing 

Find  a  friend  and  freedom  too. 


Ye  who  sigh  as  from  these  pages 
Gerty's  sorrows  you  may  learn, 

Ne'er  forget  the  bondman's  sadness, 
Never  from  his  pleadings  turn. 


eep  the  more  lor  slaves  now 
Oft  with  tyrant's  lashes  sore 


Children,  thank  the  God  of  freedom, 
You  have  friends,  and  you  are  free  — 

That  such  blessings  all  may  share  in, 
Pray,  whene'er  ye  bend  the  knee. 


"  It  was  growing  dark  in  the  city.  Out  in  the 
open  country  it  would  be  light  for  half  an  hour 
or  more ;  but  within  the  close  streets  where  my 
story  leads  me  it  was  already  dusk.  Upon  the 
wooden  door  step  of  a  low-roofed,  dark,  and  un- 
wholesome-looking house,  sat  a  little  girl,  who 
was  gazing  up  the  street  with  much  earnestness. 
The  house  door,  which  was  open  behind  her,  was 
close  to  the  sidewalk;  and  the  step  on  which 
she  sat  was  so  low  that  her  little  unshod  feet 


rested  on  the  cold  bricks.  It  was  a  chilly  even- 
ing in  November,  and  a  light  fall  of  snow,  which 
had  made  every  thing  look  bright  and  clean  in 
the  pleasant  open  squares,  near  which  the  fine 
houses  of  the  city  were  built,  had  only  served  to 
render  the  narrow  streets  and  dark  lanes  dirtier 
and  more  cheerless  than  ever;  for,  mixed  with 
the  mud  and  filth  which  abound  in  those  neigh- 
borhoods where  the  poor  are  crowded  together, 
the  beautiful  snow  had  lost  all  its  purity. 


" 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE    GERTY. 


"  A  great  many  people  were  passing  to  and  fro, 
bent  on  their  various  errands  of  duty  or  of  pleas- 
ure ;  but  no  one  noticed  the  little  girl,  for  there 
was  no  one  in  the  world  who  cared  for  her.  She 
was  scantily  clad,  in  garments  of  the  poorest  de- 
scription. Her  hair  was  long  and  very  thick  ;  un- 
combed and  unbecoming,  if  any  thing  could  be 
said  to  be  unbecoming  to  a  set  of  features  which, 
to  a  casual  observer,  had  not  a  single  attraction, 
—  being  thin  and  sharp,  while  her  complexion 
was  sallow,  and  her  whole  appearance  unhealthy. 

"  She  had,  to  be  sure,  fine  dark  eyes  ;  but  so  un- 
naturally large  did  they  seem,  in  contrast  to  her 
thin,  puny  face,  that  they  only  increased  the 
peculiarity  of  it,  without  enhancing  its  beauty. 
Had  any  one  felt  any  interest  in  her,  (which  no- 
body did,)  had  she  had  a  mother,  (which,  alas  !  she 
had  not,)  those  friendly  and  partial  eyes  would 
perhaps  have  found  something  in  her  to  praise. 
As  it  was,  however,  the  poor  little  thing  was  told, 


a  dozen  times  a  day,  that  she  was  the  worst- 
looking  child  in  the  world ;  and,  what  was  more, 
the  worst  behaved.  No  one  loved  her,  and  she 
loved  no  one ;  no  one  treated  her  kindly  ;  no  one 
tried  to  make  her  happy,  or  cared  whether  she 
were  so.  She  was  but  eight  years  old,  and  all 
alone  in  the  world. 

"  There  was  one  thing,  and  one  only,  which  she 
found  pleasure  in.  She  loved  to  watch  for  the 
coming  of  the  old  man  who  lit  the  street  lamp  in 
front  of  the  house  where  she  lived ;  to  see  the 
bright  torch  he  carried  flicker  in  the  wind ;  and 
then,  when  he  ran  up  his  ladder,  lit  the  lamp  so 
quickly  and  easily,  and  made  the  whole  place 
seem  cheerful,  one  gleam  of  joy  was  shed  on  a 
little  desolate  heart,  to  which  gladness  was  a 
stranger ;  and,  though  he  had  never  seemed  to 
see,  and  certainly  had  never  spoken  to  her,  she 
almost  felt,  as  she  watched  for  the  old  lamp- 
lighter, as  if  he  were  a  friend." 


WELCOME   TO   THE  LAMPLIGHTER 

t 
The  old  lamplighter's  welcome  here, 

With  fiery  torch  of  light, 
It  gladdens  all  the  dreary  street 

With  beam  so  clear  and  bright. 

The  ladder  bearing  in  his  hand, 
From  lamp  to  lamp  he  goes, 

And  quick  —  for  habit  makes  it  ease  — 
A  gleam  of  light  he  throws. 

Afar  upon  the  traveller's  path 

His  lanterns  shed  a  ray, 
Like  deeds  of  kindness  ofttimes  seen 

Along  life's  dreary  way. 

A  welcome,  Uncle  True,  to-night, 

A  welcome  warm  for  thee  ; 
E'en  Gerty  welcomes  thee,  for  thou 

Art  kind  to  such  as  she. 

To  me,  lamplighter,  thou  dost  seem 

An  emblem  faint  of  Him 
Who  lit  the  polar  star,  and  bade 

Its  rays  no  more  be  dim,  — 


UNCLE    TRUE    AND    LITTLE    GERTY. 


That  it  may  guide  from  tyrant  power 
The  slaves  that  northward  flee, 

To  find  a  soil  where  rights  are  safe, 
And  men  and  minds  are  free. 


" '  Gerty,'  exclaimed  a  harsh  voice  within, 
'  have  you  been  for  the  milk  ? ' 

"  The  child  made  no  answer,  but,  gliding  off 
the  door  step,  ran  quickly  round  the  corner  of  the 
house,  and  hid  a  little  out  of  sight. 

" '  What's  become  of  that  child  ? '  said  the 
woman  from  whom  the  voice  proceeded,  and  who 
now  showed  herself  at  the  door. 

"  A  boy  who  was  passing,  and  had  seen  Gerty 
run,  —  a  boy  who  had  caught  the  tone  of  the 
whole  neighborhood,  and  looked  upon  her  as  a 
sort  of  imp,  or  spirit  of  evil,  — •  laughed  aloud, 
pointed  to  the  corner  which  concealed  her,  and, 
walking  off  with  his  head  over  his  shoulder,  to  see 
what  would  happen  next,  exclaimed  to  himself,  as 
he  went,  '  She'll  catch  it !  Nan  Grant  '11  fix  her ! ' 

"  In  a  moment  more  Gerty  was  dragged  from 
her  hiding-place,  and,  with  one  blow  for  her  ugli- 
ness and  another  for  her  impudence,  (for  she  was 
making  up  faces  at  Nan  Grant  with  all  her 
might,)  she  was  despatched  down  a  neighboring 
alley  with  a  kettle  for  the  milk. 

"  She  ran  fast,  for  she  feared  the  lamplighter 
would  come  and  go  in  her  absence,  and  was  re- 
joiced, on  her  return,  to  catch  sight  of  him,  as 
she  drew  near  the  house,  just  going  up  his  lad- 
der. She  stationed  herself  at  the  foot  of  it,  and 
was  so  engaged  in  watching  the  bright  flame, 
that  she  did  not  observe  when  the  man  began  to 
descend ;  and,  as  she  was  directly  in  his  way,  he 
hit  against  her,  as  he  sprang  to  the  ground,  and 
she  fell  upon  the  pavement.  « Hollo,  my  little 
one ! '  exclaimed  he,  '  how's  this  ? '  as  he  stooped 
to  lift  her  up. 

"  She  was  upon  her  feet  in  an  instant ;  for  she 
was  used  to  hard  knocks,  and  did  not  much  mind 
a  few  bruises.  But  the  milk  !  — it  was  all  spilt. 

"  '  Well !  now,  I  declare ! '  said  the  man, 
'  that's  too  bad !  —  what'll  mammy  say  ? '  and,  for 
the  first  time  looking  full  in  Gerty's  face,  he  here 
interrupted  himself  with,  '  My !  what  an  odd- 
faced  child  !  —  looks  like  a  witch  ! '  Then,  see- 
ing that  she  looked  apprehensively  at  the  spilt 
milk,  and  gave  a  sudden  glance  up  at  the  house, 
he  added,  kindly,  '  She  won't  be  hard  on  such  a 
mite  of  a  thing  as  you  are,  will  she  ?  Cheer  up, 
my  ducky !  never  mind  if  she  does  scold  you  a 
little.  I'll  bring  you  something,  to-morrow,  that 
I  think  you'll  like,  may  be ;  you're  such  a  lone- 
some sort  of  a  looking  thing.  And,  mind,  if  the 
old  woman  makes  a  row,  tell  her  I  did  it.  —  But 
didn't  I  hurt  you  ?  What  was  you  doing  with 
my  ladder  ? ' 

"  '  I  was  seeing  you  light  the  lamp,'  said  Gerty. 
'  and  I  ain't  hurt  a  bit ;  but  I  wish  I  hadn't  spilt 
the  milk.' 


"  At  this  moment  Nan  Grant  came  to  the  door, 
saw  what  had  happened,  and  commenced  pulling 
the  child  into  the  house,  amidst  blows,  threats, 
and  profane  and  brutal  language.  The  lamp- 
lighter tried  to  appease  her;  but  she  shut  the 
door  in  his  face.  Gerty  was  scolded,  beaten,  de- 
prived of  the  crust  which  she  usually  got  for  her 
supper,  and  shut  up  in  her  dark  attic  for  the 
night.  Poor  little  child  !  Her  mother  had  died 
in  Nan  Grant's  house,  five  years  before  ;  and  she 
had  been  tolerated  there  since,  not  so  much  be- 
cause when  Ben  Grant  went  to  sea  he  bade  his 
wife  be  sure  and  keep  the  child  until  his  return, 
(for  he  had  been  gone  so  long  that  no  one  thought 
he  would  ever  come  back,)  but  because  Nan  had 
reasons  of  her  own  for  doing  so ;  and,  though  she 
considered  Gerty  a  dead  weight  upon  her  hands, 
she  did  not  care  to  incite  inquiries  by  trying  to 
dispose  of  her  elsewhere. 

'^"  When  Gerty  first  found  herself  locked  up  for 
the  night  in  the  dark  garret,  (Gerty  hated  and 
feared  the  dark,;  she  stood  for  a  minute  perfectly 
still ;  then  suddenly  began  to  stamp  and  scream, 
tried  to  beat  open  the  door,  and  shouted, '  I  hate 
you,  Nan  Grant !  Old  Nan  Grant,  I  hate  you  ! ' 
But  nobody  came  near  her;  and  after  a  while 
she  grew  more  quiet,  went  and  threw  herself 
down  on  her  miserable  bed,  covered  her  face  with 
her  little  thin  hands,  and  sobbed  and  cried  as  if 
her  heart  would  break.  She  wept  until  she  was 
utterly  exhausted ;  and  then  gradually,  with  only 
now  and  then  a  low  sob  and  catching  of  the 
breath,  she  grew  quite  still.  By  and  by  she  took 
away  her  hands  from  her  face,  clasped  them  to- 
gether in  a  convulsive  manner,  and  looked  up  at 
a  little  glazed  window  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  It 
was  but  three  panes  of  glass  unevenly  stuck  to- 
gether, and  was  the  only  chance  of  light  the 
room  had.  There  was  no  moon ;  but,  as  Gerty 
looked  up,  she  saw  through  the  window,  shining 
down  upon  her,  one  bright  star.  She  thought  she 
had  never  seen  any  thing  half  so  beautiful.  She 
had  often  been  out  of  doors  when  the  sky  was 
full  of  stars,  and  had  not  noticed  them  much ; 
but  this  one,  all  alone,  so  large,  so  bright,  and 
yet  so  soft  and  pleasant-looking,  seemed  to  speak 
to  her ;  it  seemed  to  say,  '  Gerty !  Gerty !  poor 
little  Gerty  ! '  She  thought  it  seemed  like  a  kind 
face,  such  as  she  had  a  long  time  ago  seen  or 
dreamt  about.  Suddenly  it  flashed  through  her 
mind,  '  Who  lit  it  ?  Somebody  lit  it !  Some 
good  person,  I  know!  O,  how, could  he  get  up 
so  high ! '  And  Gerty  fell  asleep,  wondering  who 
lit  the  star. 

"  Poor  little  untaught,  benighted  soul !  Who 
shall  enlighten  thee  ?  Thou  art  God's  child,  little 


1 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE    GERTY. 


one !    Christ  died  for  thee.    Will  he  not  send  I   kindle  a  light  that  shall  never  go  out,  the  light 
man  or  angel  to  light  up  the  darkness  within,  to       that  shall  shine  through  all  eternity  ?  " 


GERTY  IN  THE  WOOD  YARD. 

Quite  near  the  house  of  "  old  Nan  Grant," 
Which  Gerty  called  her  home, 

A  wood  yard  by  the  sea  shore  stood, 
Where  Gerty  loved  to  roam  : 

Its  friendly  shelter,  day  by  day, 

Kept  naughty  children  far  away. 

A  cavity,  by  planks  o'erhung, 

Was  Gerty's  lone  retreat, 
And  thither,  from  harsh  words  and  blows, 

She  turned  her  little  feet, 
When  breakfast  hour  for  her  was  passed, 
And  she  escaped  from  "  Nan  "  at  last. 

More  cheerful  grew  she  as  she  gazed 

Far  o'er  the  waters  blue, 
And  wondered  what  the  gift  would  be 

From  kind  old  "  Uncle  True," 
As  in  full  many  an  after  year 
Styled  she  the  old  Lamplighter  dear. 

At  times  a  snow-white  sail  she  spied, 

Far  out  upon  the  sea, 
And  queried  if  a  soul  on  board 

Was  sorrowful  as  she  ;  — 
She  knew  not  that  there  might  be  slaves, 
For  freedom  sighing  or  their  graves. 

Alas !  too  oft  the  gallant  bark 

Hath  sped  across  the  main, 
Within  her  bosom  bearing  men 

Fast  bound  in  Slavery's  chain  ; 
And  gentle  women  groaned  and  cried 
For  Freedom's  glorious  boon  denied. 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE    GERTY. 


There  little  children,  weeping,  begged 

To  see  their  early  home, 
The  parents  whom  they  left  behind, 

In  distant  lands  to  roam. 
For  little  children,  too,  they  steal, 
And  care  not  for  their  woe  or  weal. 

All  slowly  passed  the  day  to  her 

Who  waited  for  the  night, 
When  good  and  kind  old  "  Uncle  True  " 

The  lamp  again  should  light. 
Thus  slowly,  oft,  the  day  goes  by, 
To  those  who  love  the  midnight  sky. 

The  lonely  fugitive,  who  seeks 

From  every  eye  to  hide, 
Lest  he  to  slavery  be  returned, 

If  by  the  hunters  spied, 
He  loves  the  darkness  of  the  night, 
And  asks  alone  the  polar  light. 


"  True  was  late  about  his  work  that  night,  and 
in  a  great  hurry.  He  had  only  time  to  speak  a 
few  words  in  his  rough  way  to  Gerty ;  but  they 
were  words  coming  straigh't  from  as  good  and 
honest  a  heart  as  ever  throbbed.  He  put  his 
great,  smutty  hand  on  her  head  in  the  kindest 
way,  told  her  how  sorry  he  was  she  got  hurt,  and 
said,  '  it  was  a  plaguy  shame  she  should  have 
been  whipped  too,  and  all  for  a  spill  o'  milk,  that 
was  a  misfortin',  and  no  crime.' 

"  •  But  here,'  added  he,  diving  into  one  of  his 
huge  pockets,  '  here's  the  critter  I  promised  you. 
Take  good  care  on't ;  don't  'buse  it ;  and,  I'm 
guessin',  if  it's  like  the  mother  that  I've  got  at 
home,  'twon't  be  a  little  ye'll  be  likin'  it,  'fore 
you're  done.  Good-by,  my  little  gal ;'  and  he 
shouldered  his  ladder  and  went  off,  leaving  in 
Gerty's  hands  a  little  gray  and  white  kitten. 


"  Gerty  was  so  taken  by  surprise,  on  finding  in 
her  arms  a  live  kitten,  something  so  different 
from  what  she  had  anticipated,  that  she  stood  for 
a  minute  irresolute  what  to  do  with  it.  There 
were  a  great  many  cats,  of  all  sizes  and  colors, 
inhabitants  of  the  neighboring  houses  and  yards ; 
frightened  looking  creatures,  which,  like  Gerty 
herself,  crept  or  scampered  about,  and  often  hid 
themselves  among  the  wood  and  coal,  seeming  to 
feel,  as  she  did,  great  doubts  about  their  having 
a  right  to  be  any  where.  Gerty  had  often  felt  a 
sympathy  for  them,  but  never  thought  of  trying 
to  catch  one,  carry  it  home,  and  tame  it ;  for  she 
knew  that  food  and  shelter  were  most  grudgingly 
accorded  to  herself,  and  would  not  certainly  be 
extended  to  her  pets.  Her  first  thought,  there- 
fore, was  to  throw  the  kitten  down,  and  let  it  run 
away." 


LITTLE  GEKTY'S   KITTEN. 


The  kitten  then  to  Gerty  clung, 
As  if  protection  asking, 

And  often  after,  in  the  sun, 
By  Gerty's  side  lay  basking. 


Uncle  True  giving  Qerty  the  Kitten. 


10 


UNCLE    TEUE    AND    LITTLE    GERTY. 


Poor  Gerty  could  not  take  her  home  ; 

From  Nan  she  sought  to  hide  her, 
For  well  she  knew  that  cruel  dame 

Would  kill  her  if  she  spied  her. 

The  child  loved  "  Kitty  "  all  the  more 

Because  she  was  in  danger, 
And  braved  Nan's  wrath  some  milk  to  gain 

To  feed  the  little  stranger. 

When  roughly  came  the  autumn  blast, 

And  cold  the  wintry  weather, 
Within  the  garret  was  Kitty  hid, 

And  both  were  glad  together. 

Thus  kind  are  some  good  persons,  oft, 
When  slaves  for  aid  are  asking  ; 

Right  deeds,  they  know,  whate'er  the  law, 
Will  make  God's  favor  lasting. 

And  thus  good  people  often  give 

The  fugitive  a  lodging, 
Ne'er  fearing  those,  intent  on  gain, 

About  his  pathway  dodging. 


"  The  supper  was  just  finished,  when  an  organ 
grinder  struck  up  a  tune  outside  the  door.  The 
men  stepped  out  to  join  the  crowd,  consisting 
chiefly  of  the  inmates  of  the  house,  who  were 
watching  the  motions  of  a  monkey  that  danced 
in  time  to  the  music.  Gerty  ran  to  the  window 
to  look  out.  Delighted  with  the  gambols  of  the 
creature,  she  gazed  intently,  until  the  man  and 
monkey  moved  off;  so  intently,  that  she  did  not 
miss  the  kitten,  which,  in  the  mean  time,  crept 
down  from  her  arms,  and,  springing  upon  the 
table,  began  to  devour  the  remnants  of  the  re- 


The organ  grinder  was  not  out  of  sight 
when  Gerty's  eyes  fell  upon  the  figure  of  the  old 


past. 


lamplighter  coming  up  the  street.  She  thought 
she  would  stay  and  watch  him  light  his  lamp, 
when  she  was  startled  by  a  sharp  and  angry  ex- 
clamation from  Nan,  and  turned  just  in  time  to 
see  her  snatch  her  darling  kitten  from  the  table. 
Gerty  sprang  forward  to  the  rescue,  jumped  into 
a  chair,  and  caught  Nan  by  the  arm  ;  but  she 
firmly  pushed  her  back  with  one  hand,  while  with 
the  other  she  threw  the  kitten  half  across  the 
room.  Gerty  heard  a  sudden  splash  and  a  piercing 
cry.  Nan  had  flung  the  poor  creature  into  a 


large  vessel  of  steaming  hot  water,  which  stood 
ready  for  some  household  purpose.  The  little  ani- 
mal struggled  and  writhed  an  instant,  then  died 
in  torture. 

"  All  the  fury  of  Gerty's  nature  was  roused. 
Without  hesitation  she  lifted  a  stick  of  wood 
which  lay  near  her,  and  flung  it  at  Nan  with  all 
her  strength.  It  was  well  aimed,  and  struck  the 
woman  on  the  head.  The  blood  started  from  the 
wound  the  blow  had  given  ;  but  Nan  hardly  felt 
the  blow,  so  greatly  was  she  excited  against  the 
child.  She  sprang  upon  her,  caught  her  by  the 
shoulders,  and,  opening  the  house  door,  thrust 
her  out  upon  the  sidewalk. 

"  '  Ye'll  never  darken  my  doors  agin,  yer  imp 
of  wickedness ! '  said  she,  as  she  rusned  into  the 
house,  leaving  the  child  alone  in  the  cold,  dark 
night. 

"  When  Gerty  was  angry  or  grieved,  she  al- 
ways cried  aloud  —  not  sobbing,  as  many  chil- 
dren do,  but  uttering  a  succession  of  piercing 
shrieks,  until  she  sometimes  quite  exhausted  her 
strength.  When  she  found  herself  in  the  street, 
she  commenced  screaming  —  not  from  fear  at 
being  turned  away  from  her  only  home,  and  left 


Li— «_^^C>-r-u  ^N-jAj— v.  -ill 


UNCLE   TRUE    AND    LITTLE    GERTY. 


11 


all  alone  at  nightfall  to  wander  about  the  city,  j 
and  perhaps  freeze  before  morning,  (for  it  was 
very  cold.)  She  did  not  think  of  herself  for  a 
moment.  Horror  and  grief  at  the  dreadful  fate 
of  the  only  thing  she  loved  in  the  world  entirely 
filled  her  little  soul.  So  she  crouched  down 
against  the  side  of  the  house,  her  face  hid  in  her 
hands,  unconscious  of  the  noise  she  was  making, 
and  unaware  of  the  triumph  of  the  girl  who  had 
once  thrown  away  her  shoes,  and  who  was  watch- 
ing her  from  the  house  door  opposite.  Suddenly 
she  found  herself  lifted  up  and  placed  on  one  of 
the  rounds  of  Trueman  Flint's  ladder,  which  still 
leaned  against  the  lamp  post.  True  held  her 
firmly,  just  high  enough  on  the  ladder  to  bring 
her  face  opposite  his,  recognized  her  as  his  old 
acquaintance,  and  asked  her,  in  the  same  kind 
way  he  had  used  on  the  former  occasion,  what 
was  the  matter." 

After  Gerty  had  informed  the  good  old  lamp- 
lighter of  the  cause  of  her  grief,  he  went  into  the 
house  and  tried  to  induce  Nan  Grant  to  call  the 
child  in  out  of  the  cold.  Nan  Grant  cruelly  re- 
fused, and  became  angry  with  "  Uncle  True  "  for 
taking  Gerty's  part. 

"  Gerty  had  ceased  crying  when  he  came  out, 
and  looked  up  into  his  face  with  the  greatest  in- 
terest. 

•'  •  Well,"  said  he,  '  she  says  you  shan't  come 
back.' 

"  '  O,  I'm  so  glad  ! '  said  Gerty. 

"  «  But  where'll  you  go  to  ? ' 

"  '  I  don't  know  ;  p'raps  I'll  go  with  you,  and 
see  you  light  the  lamps'.' 

"  '  But  where'll  you  sleep  to-night  ? ' 

"  '  I  don't  know  where ;  I  haven't  got  any 
house.  I  guess  I'll  sleep  out,  where  I  can  see 
the  stars.  1  don't  like  dark  places.  But  it'll  be 
cold,  won't  it  ? ' 

"  •  My  goodness  !  you'll  freeze  to  death,  child.' 

" '  Well,  what'll  become  of  me  then  ? ' 

" '  The  Lord  only  knows.' 

"  True  looked  at  Gerty  in  perfect  wonder  and 
distress.  He  knew  nothing  about  children,  and 
was  astonished  at  her  simplicity.  He  could  not 
'  leave  her  there,  such  a  cold"  night ;  but  he  hardly 
knew  what  he  could  do  with  her  if  he  took  her 
home,  for  he  lived  alone,  and  was  poor.  But 
another  violent  coughing  spell  decided  him  at 
once  to  share  with  her  his  shelter,  fire,  and  food, 
for  one  night  at  least ;  so  he  took  her  bv  the 
hand,  saying,  '  Come  with  rue  j  and  Uerty  ran 
along  confidently  by  his  side,  never  asking 
whither. 

"  True  had  about  a  dozen  more  lamps  to  light 
before  they  reached  the  end  of  the  street,  when 
his  round  of  duty  was  finished.  Gerty  watched 
him  light  each  one  with  as  keen  an  interest  as  if 
that  were  the  only  object  for  which  she  was  in  his 
company  ;  and  it  was  only  after  they  had  reached 
the  corner  of  the  street,  and  walked  on  for  some 
distance  without  stopping,  that  she  inquired 
where  they  were  going. 

"  •  Going  home,'  said  True. 


"  '  Am  I  going  to  your  home  ? '  said  Gerty. 

"  «  Yes,'  said  True, '  and  here  it  is." 

"  He  opened  a  little  gate  close  to  the  sidewalk. 
It  led  into  a  small  and  very  narrow  yard,  which 
stretched  along  the  whole  length  of  a  decent  two- 
storied  house.  True  lived  in  the  back  part  of  the 
house;  so  they  went  through  the  yard,  passed 
by  several  windows  and  the  main  entrance,  and, 
keeping  on  to  a  small  door  in  the  rear,  opened  it 
and  went  in.  Gerty  was  by  this  time  trembling 
with  the  cold  ;  her  little  bare  feet  were  quite  blue 
with  walking  so  far  on  the  pavements.  There 
was  a  stove  in  the  room  into  which  they  had  en- 
tered, but  no  fire  in  it.  It  was  a  large  room,  and 
looked  as  if  it  might  be  pretty  comfortable, 
though  it  was  very  untidy.  True  made  as  much 
haste  as  he  could  to  dispose  of  his  ladder,  torch, 
&c.,  in  an  adjoining  shed  ;  and  then,  bringing  in 
a  handful  of  wood,  he  lit  a  fire  in  the  stove.  In 
a  few  minutes  there  was  a  bright  blaze,  and  the 
chilly  atmosph«re  grew  warm.  Drawing  an  old 
wooden  settle  up  to  the  fire,  he  threw  his  shaggy 
great-coat  over  it,  and,  lifting  little  Gerty  up,  he 
placed  her  gently  upon  the  comfortable  seat.  He 
then  went  to  work  to  get  supper ;  for  True  was 
an  old  bachelor,  and  accustomed  to  do  every  thing 
for  himself.  He  made  tea  ;  then  mixing  a  great 
mug  full  for  Gerty,  with  plenty  of  sugar  and  all 
his  cent's  worth  of  milk,  he  produced  from  a  lit- 
tle cupboard  a  loaf  of  bread,  cut  her  a  huge  slice, 
and  pressed  her  to  eat  and  drink  as  mucb  as  she 
could;  for  he  judged  well  when  he  concluded 
from  her  looks  that  she  had  not  always  been  well 
fed,  and  so  much  satisfaction  did  he  feel  in  her 
evident  enjoyment  of  the  best  meal  she  had  ever 
had,  that  he  forgot  to  partake  of  it  himself,  but  sat 
watching  her  with  a  tenderness  which  proved  that 
the  unerring  instinct  of  childhood  had  not  been 
wanting  in  Gerty,  when  she  felt  as  she  watched 
True  about  his  work,  so  long  before  he  ever  spoke 
to  her,  that  he  was  a  friend  to  every  body,  even 
to  the  most  forlorn  little  girl  in  the  world. 

"  Trueman  Flint  was  born  and  brought  up  in 
New  Hampshire ;  but  when  fifteen  years  old, 
being  left  an  orphan,  he  had  made  his  way  to 
Boston,  where  he  supported  himself  for  many 
years  by  whatever  employment  he  could  obtain  ; 
having  been  at  different  times  a  newspaper  car- 
rier, a  cab  driver,  a  porter,  a  wood-cutter,  indeed, 
a  Jack-at-all-trades ;  and  so  honest,  capable,  and 
good  tempered  had  h*  always  shown  himself,  that 
ne  every  wnere  won  a  good  name,  and  had  some- 
times continued  for  years  in  the  same  employ. 
Previous  to  his  entering  upon  the  service  in 
which  we  find  him,  he  had  been  for  some  time 
a  porter  in  a  large  store,  owned  by  a  wealthy  and 
generous  merchant.  Being  one  day  engaged  in 
removing  some  heavy  casks,  he  had  the  misfor- 
tune to  be  severely  injured  by  one  of  them  falling 
upon  his  chest.  For  a  long  time  no  hope  was 
entertained  of  his  recovering  from  the  effects  of 
the  accident ;  and  when  he  at  last  began  to  mend, 
his  health  returned  so  gradually  that  it  was  a 
year  before  he  was  able  to  be  at  work  again.  This 


12 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND    LITTLE    GERTY. 


sickness  swallowed  up  the  savings  of  years ;  but 
his  late  employer  never  allowed  him  to  want  for 
any  comforts,  provided  an  excellent  physician, 
and  saw  that  he  was  well  taken  care  of. 

"  True,  however,  had  never  been  the  same  man 
since.  He  rose  up  from  his  sick  bed  ten  years 
older  in  constitution,  and  his  strength  so  much 
enfeebled  that  he  was  only  fit  for  some  compara- 
tively light  employment.  It  was  then  that  his 
kind  friend  and  former  master  obtained  for  him 
the  situation  he  now  held  as  lamplighter;  in 
addition  to  which  he  frequently  earned  consider- 
able sums  by  sawing  wood,  shovelling  snow,  &c. 

"  He  was  now  between  fifty  and  sixty  years 
old,  a  stoutly-built  man,  with  features  cut  in  one 
of  nature's  rough  moulds,  but  expressive  of  much 
good  nature.  He  was  naturally  silent  and  re- 
served, lived  much  by  himself,  was  known  to  but 
few  people  in  the  city,  and  had  only  one  crony, 
the  sexton  of  a  neighboring  church,  a  very  old 
man,  and  one  usually  considered  very  cross- 
grained  and  uncompanionable. 

"  But  we  left  Gerty  finishing  her  supper,  and 
now  when  we  return  to  her  she  is  stretched  upon 


the  wide  settle  sound  asleep,  covered  up  with  a 
head  resting  upon  a  pil- 
low.   True  sits  beside  her  ;  her  little  thin  hand 


•warm  blanket,  and  her 


lies  in  his  great  palm  ;  occasionally  he  draws  the 
blanket  closer  round  her.  She  breathes  hard  ; 
suddenly  she  gives  a  nervous  start,  then  speaks 
quickly  ;  her  dreams  are  evidently  troubled.  True 
listens  intently  to  her  words,  as  she  exclaims 
eagerly,  '  O,  don't  !  don't  drown  my  kitty  !  '  and 
then  again,  in  a  voice  of  fear,  '  O,  she'll  catch 
me  !  she'll  catch  me  !  '  once  more  ;  and  now  her 
tones  are  touchingly  plaintive  and  earnest,  •  Dear, 
dear,  good  old  man!  let  me  stay  with  you  —  do 
let  me  stay  !  '• 

"  Great  tears  are  in  Trueman  Flint's  eyes,  and 
rolling  down  the  furrows  of  his  rough  cheeks  ;  he 
lays  his  great  head  on  the  pillow  and  draws 
Gerty's  little  face  close  to  his,  at  the  same  time 
smoothing  her  long-  uncombed  hair  with  his  hand. 
He,  too,  is  thinking  aloud  ;  what  does  he  say  ? 

"'Catch  you?  No,  she  shan't!  Stay  with 
met  So  you  shall,  I  promise  you,  poor  little 
birdie  !  All  alone  in  this  big  world,  and  so  am  I. 
Please  God  we'll  bide  together.' 

Gerty  was  taken  home  by  "  Uncle  True,"  and 
for  three  weeks  was  very  ill  with  a  violent  attack 
of  fever.  Uncle  True  found  her  stretched  upon 
the  floor,  having  swooned.  A  kind  neighbor  took 
care  of  her,  and  when  she  was  well  enough  Gerty 
became  acquainted  with  the  lady's  only  son, 
whose  name  was  "  Willie." 

Willie  had  a  grandfather,  Mr.  Cooper,  who  was 
one  day  talking  with  the  good  lamplighter  about 
Gerty,  and  asked  him,  — 

"  '  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  the  found- 
ling, Flint?' 

"'Do  with  her?  —  keep  her,  to  be  sure,  and 
take  care  on  her.'  Cooper  laughed  rather  sar- 
castically. '  Well,  now  I  s'pose,  neighbor,  you 
think  it's  rather  freakish  in  me  to  be  adoptin'  a 


child  at  my  time  o'  life ;  and  p'raps  it  is ;  but 
I'll  explain  to  you  just  how  'twas.  She'd  a  died 
that  night  I  tell  yer  on,  if  I  hadn't  brought  her 
home  with  me ;  and  a  good  many  times  since, 
what's  more,  if  I,  with  the  help  o'  your  darter, 
hadn't  took  mighty  good  care  on  her.  Well,  she 
took  on  so  in  her  sleep,  the  first  night  ever  she 
came,  and  cried  out  to  me  all  as  if  she  never  had 
a  friend  afore,  (and  I  doubt  me  she  never  had,) 
that  I  made  up  my  mind  then  she  should  stay, 
at  any  rate,  and  I'd  take  care  on  her,  and  share 
my  last  crust  with  the  wee  thing,  come  what 
might.  The  Lord's  been  very  marciful  to  me, 
Mr.  Cooper,  very  marciful.  He's  raised  me  up 
friends  in  my  deep  distress.  I  knew,  when  I  was 
a  little  shaver,  what  a  lonesome  thing  it  was  to 
be  fatherless  and  motherless ;  and  when  I  see 
this  little  sufferin'  human  bein',  I  felt  as  if,  all 
friendless  as  she  seemed,  she  was  more  partick- 
lerly  the  Lord's,  and  as  if  I  could  not  sarve  him 
more,  and  ought  not  to  sarve  him  less,  than  to 
share  with  her  the  blessin's  he  has  bestowed  on 
me.  You  look  round,  neighbor,  as  if  you  thought 
"tvvan't  much  to  share  with  any  one ;  and  'tan't 
much  there  is  here,  to  be  sure  ;  but  it's  a  home,  — 
yes,  a  home  ;  and  that's  a  great  thing  to  her  that 
never  had  one.  I've  got  my  hands  yet,  and  a 
stout  heart,  and  a  willin'  mind.  With  God's  help 
I'll  be  a  father  to  that  child ;  and  the  time  may 
come  when  she'll  be  God's  imbodied  blessin'  to 
me.' 

"  True  was  so  excited  and  animated  by  his  sub- 
ject, that  he  did  not  notice  what  the  sexton  had 
observed,  but  did  not  choose  to  interrupt.  Gerty 
had  .risen  from  her  bed,  and  was  standing  beside 
True ;  her  eyes  fixed  upon  his  face,  breathless 
with  the  interest  she  felt  in  his  words.  She 
touched  his  shoulder  ;  he  looked  round,  saw  her, 
and  stretched  out  his  arms.  She  sprang  into 
them,  buried  her  face  in  his  bosom,  and,  bursting 
into  a  paroxysm  of  joyful  tears,  gasped  out  the 
words,  '  Shall  I  stay  with  you  always  ? ' 

"  'Yes,  just  as  long  as  I  live,'  said  True,  '  you 
shall  be  my  child.'  " 

The  first  time  Gerty  saw  Willie  was  one  even- 
ing after  she  had,  with  the  aid  of  Willie's  mother, 
and  another  neighbor,  succeeded  in  arranging  the 
room  in  a  more  tidy  manner  than  it  had  been  for 
years.  Uncle  True  was  very  much  pleased  to  see 
Gertv  neatly  dressed,  with  clothes  provided  by 
the  daughter  of  True's  benefactor,  Mr.  Graham, 
and  to  see  the  room  in  such  good  order.  Pretty 
soon  Willie  came  in  with  a  plaster  image  of  little 
Samuel,  about  whom  we  read  in  the  Bible,  kneel- 
ing in  prayer. 

" '  0,  how  pretty ! '  exclaimed  Gerty,  full  of 
delight. 

"•Why  didn't  I  think?'  said  Willie;  'I 
might  hare  known  what  'twas,  by  the  feeling.' 

" « Why,  did  you  ever  see  it  before  ? '  said  Gerty. 

"'Not  this  same  one;  but  I've  seen  lots  just 
like  it.' 

"  •  Have  you  ? '  said  Gerty.  « I  never  did.  I 
think  it's  the  beautifullest  thing  that  ever  was. 


Little  Gerty  lying  on  the  floor. 


UNCLE    TRUE   AND    LITTLE    GERTY. 


Uncle  True,  did  you  say  it  was  for  me  ?  Where 
did  you  get  it  ? ' 

"  '  It  was  by  an  accident  I  got  it.  A  few  min- 
utes before  I  met  you,  Willie,  I  was  stoppin"  at  the 
corner  to  light  my  lamp,  when  I  saw  one  of  those 
furren  boys,  with  a  sight  o'  these  sort  of  things 
and  some  black  ones,  too,  all  set  up  on  a  board, 
and  he  was  walkin'  with  'em  a-top  of  his  head. 
I  was  just  a  wonderin'  how  he  kept  'em  there, 
when  he  hit  the  board  agin  my  lamp  post,  and, 
the  first  thing  I  knew,  whack  they  all  went! 
He'd  spilt  "em  every  one.  Lucky  enough  for 
him,  there  was  a  great  bank  of  soft  snow  close 
to  the  sidewalk,  and  the  most  of  'em  fell  into 
that,  and  wasn't  hurt.  Some  few  went  on  to  the 
bricks,  and  were  smashed.  Well,  I  kind  o'  pitied 
the  feller;  for  it  was  late,  and  I  thought  like 
enough  he  hadn't  had  much  luck  sellin'  of  "em, 
to  have  so  many  left  on  his  hands  — ' 

"  '  On  his  head,  you  mean,'  said  Willie. 

"  '  Yes,  Master  Willie,  or  on  the  snow,'  said 
True ;  '  any  way  you're  a  mind  to  have  it.' 


"  '  And  I  know  what  you  did,  Uncle  True,  just 
as  well  as  if  I'd  seen  you,'  said  Willie.  '  You  set 
your  ladder  and  lantern  right  down,  and  went  to 
work  helping  him  pick  'em  all  up,  —  that's  just 
what  you'd  be  sure  to  do  for  any  body.  I  hope,  if 
ever  you  get  into  trouble,  some  of  the  folks 
you've  helped  will  be  by  to  make  return.' 

"  '  This  feller,  Willie,  didn't  wait  for  me  to  get 
into  trouble;  he  made  return  right  off.  When 
they  were  all  set  right,  he  bowed,  and  scraped, 
and  touched  his  hat  to  me,  as  if  I'd  been  the 
biggest  gentleman  in  the  land ;  talkin',  too,  he 
was.  all  the  time,  though  I  couldn't  make  out  a 
word  of  his  lingo ;  and  then  insisted  on  my 
takin'  one  of  the  figurs.  I  wan't  goin'  to,  for  I 
didn't  want  it;  but  I  happened  to  think  little 
Gerty  might  like  it.' 

"  '  O,  I  shall  like  it ! '  said  Gerty,  <  I  shall  like 
it  better  than  —  no,  not  better,  but  almost  as  well 
as  my  kitten  ;  not  quite  as  well,  because  that  was 
alive,  and  this  isn't ;  but  almost.  0,  au't  he  a 
cunning  little  boy  ? '  " 


THE   PLASTER   IMAGE. 


Another  gift  to  Gerty  came 
From  kind  old  Uncle  True, 

A  plaster  cast  of  kneeling  boy, 
All  white,  and  clean,  and  new. 

She  prized  it  as  a  gift  of  love, 
But  asked,  "  Why  kneels  it  there?  " 

And  then  her  playmate,  Willie,  said, 
"  It  kneels  because  in  prayer." 

'Twould  make  one  of  a  picture  think, 

That  plaster  cast  to  see, 
Of  one  in  chains,  with  upraised  hands, 

And  bending,  too,  the  knee. 

To  kindly  heart  a  sadder  sight 
Than  this  is  \scarce  beheld  — 

A  slave  imploring  freedom's  boon, 
To  servitude  compelled. 

Would  any  know  what  bondmen  are  ? 

Most  wretched  men  indeed  ; 
They  who,  alas !  can  seldom  know 

The  joy  of  being  freed 


Tlie  Plaster  Image. 


f 


16 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE    GERTY. 


From  tyrant  masters'  dreadful  power, 

From  lifelong  toil  severe, 
Too  often  sold  to  wander  far 

From  wife  and  children  dear. 

The  children  of  New  England  fair 

Most  grateful  well  may  be, 
That  though  they,  too,  should  kneel  in  prayer, 

They  need  not  pray  as  he. 

They  need  not  ask  for  liberty 

On  them  to  be  bestowed, 
Yet  pray  for  those  in  slavery's  chains, 

Beneath  a  weary  load. 


"  After  Willie  went  home  that  evening,  and 
Gerty  was  left  alone  with  True,  she  sat  on  a  low 
stool  beside  him  for  some  time,  without  speaking. 
Her  eyes  were  intently  fixed  upon  the  white  im- 
age which  lay  in  her  lap :  that  her  little  mind  was 
very  busy  there  could  be  no  doubt ;  for  thought 
was  plainly  written  on  her  face.  True  was  not 
often  the  first  to  speak ;  but  finding  Gerty  unu- 
sually quiet,  he  lifted  up  her  chin,  looked  in- 
quiringly in  her  face,  and  then  said,  — 

"  '  Well,  Willie's  a  pretty  clever  sort  of  a  boy, 
isn't  he?' 

"Gerty  answered,  'Yes;'  without,  however, 
seeming  to  know  what  she  was  saying. 

"  '  You  like  him,  don't  you  ? '  said  True. 

"  '  Very  much,'  said  Gerty,  in  the  same  absent 
way.  It  was  not  Willie  she  was  thinking  of. 
True  waited  for  Gerty  to  begin  talking  about  her 
new  acquaintance ;  but  she  did  not  speak  for  a 
minute  or  two.  Then  looking  up  suddenly,  she 
said,  '  Uncle  True.' 

"  '  What  say  ? ' 

" '  What  does  Samuel  pray  to  God  for  ? ' 

"  True  stared.  '  Samuel !  —  pray  !  —  I  guess  I 
don't  know  exactly  what  you're  saying.' 

" '  Why,'  said  Gerty,  holding  up  the  image, 
'  Willie  says  this  little  boy's  name  is  Samuel, 
and  that  he  sits  on  his  knee,  and  puts  his  hands 
together,  so,  and  looks  up,  because  he's  praying 
to  God,  that  lives  up  in  the  sky.  I  don't  know 
what  he  means,  —  way  up  in  the  sky,  —  do  you  ? ' 

"True  took  the  image,  and  looked  at  it  at-^ 
tentively ;  he  moved  uneasily  upon  his  chair, 
scratched  his  head,  and  finally  said,  'Well,  I 
s'pose  he's  about  right.  This  'ere  child  is  prayin' 
sartain,  though  I  didn't  think  on't  afore.  But  I 
don't  jist  know  what  he  calls  it  a  Samuel  for. 
We'll  ask  him,  some  time.' 

"  «  Well,  what  does  he  pray  for,  Uncle  True  ?  ' 

"  '  0,  he  prays  to  make  him  good ;  it  makes 
folks  good  to  pray  to  God.' 


" '  Can  God  make  folks  good  ? ' 

" '  Yes.  God  is  very  great ;  he  can  do  any 
thing.' 

"  'How  can  he  hear?' 

"  '  He  hears  every  thing,  and  sees  every  thing 
in  the  world.' 

"  '  And  does  he  live  in  the  sky  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,'  said  True,  '  in  heaven.' 

"All  the  information  that  Gerty  could  gain 
amounted  to  the  knowledge  of  these  facts :  that 
God  was  in  heaven;  that  his  power  was  great; 
and  that  people  were  made  better  by  prayer.  Her 
little  eager  brain  was  so  intent  upon  the  subject, 
however,  that  as  it  grew  late,  the  thought  even 
of  sleeping  in  her  new  room  could  not  efface  it 
from  her  mind.  After  she  had  gone  to  bed,  with 
the  white  image  hugged  close  to  her  bosom,  and 
True  had  taken  away  the  lamp,  she  lay  for  a  long 
time  with  her  eyes  wide  open.  Just  at  the  foot 
of  the  bed  was  the  window.  Gerty  could  see  out, 
as  she  had  done  before  in  her  garret  at  Nan 
Grant's  ;  but,  the  window  being  larger,  she  had  a 
much  more  extended  view.  The  sky  was  bright 
with  stars,  and  the  sight  of  them  revived  her  old 
wonder  and  curiosity  as  to  the  author  of  such 
distant  and  brilliant  lights.  Now,  however,  as 
she  gazed,  there  darted  through  her  mind  the 
thought,  '  God  lit  them  !  O,  how  great  he  must 
be  !  But  a  child  might  pray  to  him.'  She  rose 
from  her  little  bed,  approached  the  window,  and, 
falling  on  her  knees,  and  clasping  her  hands  pre- 
cisely in  the  attitude  of  the  little  Samuel,  she 
looked  up  to  heaven.  She  spoke  no  word,  but  her 
eyes  glistened  with  the  dew  of  a  tear  that  stood  in 
each.  Was  not  each  tear  a  prayer  ?  She  breathed 
no  petition,  but  she  longed  for  God  and  virtue. 
Was  not  that  very  wish  a  prayer  ?  Her  little  up- 
lifted heart  throbbed  vehemently.  Was  not  each 
throb  a  prayer  ?  And  did  not  God  in  heaven, 
without  whom  not  a  sparrow  falls  to  the  ground, 
hear  and  accept  that  first  homage  of  a  little 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE   GERTY.  17 


untaught  child;  and  did  it  not  call  a  blessing 
down  ? 

Many  a  petition  did  Gerty  offer  up  in  after 
years.  In  many  a  time  of  trouble  did  she  come 
to  God  for  help  ;  in  many  an  hour  of  bitter  sor- 
row did  she  from  the  same  source  seek  comfort ; 
and,  when  her  strength  and  heart  failed  her,  God 


hecame  the  strength  of  her  heart.  But  never  did 
she  approach  his  throne  with  a  purer  offering,  a 
more  acceptable  sacrifice,  than  when,  in  her  first 
deep  penitence,  her  first  earnest  faith,  her  first  en- 
kindled hope,  she  took  the  attitude,  and  her  heart 
uttered,  thougfi  her  lips  pronounced  them  not,  the 
words  of  the  prophet  child,  '  Here  am  I,  Lord.' " 


GERTY'S   FIRST  PRAYER 

To  little  children,  in  their  youth, 
Full  many  a  parent  dear 

Oft  whispers,  till  they  learn  the  words, 
Some  simple,  morning  prayer. 

And  when  the  stars  are  peeping  out, 
And  twilight  growing  dim, 

By  parents  taught,  do  children  good 
Oft  sing  their  evening  hymn. 

But  little  Gerty  never  knew 
The  simplest,  shortest  prayer, 

Since  Nan  was  wicked,  and  the  child 
Had  lost  her  mother  dear. 

She  was  not  stolen  from  her  home, 
As  some  slave  children  are, 

But  still,  like  them,  without  a  friend 
To  teach  her  one  short  prayer. 

Yet  Willie  dear  and  Uncle  True 
Had  told  her  of  the  Lord, 

Who  dwells  in  heaven,  and  loves  to  hear 
Each  childish  prayer  to  God. 

So  Gerty  knelt,  one  night,  in  prayer, 
\  Yet  not  a  word  she  spoke  ; 

I  Her  wish  she  thought,  but  still  no  sound 

The  evening  silence  broke. 

She  could  not  speak  ;  she  knew  not  how 
To  tell  the  Lord  her  care  ; 

But  still  she  prayed,  for  true  desire, 
Though  uttered  not,  is  prayer. 


18 


UNCLE   TRUE    AND    LITTLE    GERTY. 


Though  Gerty  never  learned  the  hymn 
To  Christian  hearts  so  dear, 

She  felt  whate'er  the  poet  said 
About  true,  fervent  prayer  :  — 

"  Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh, 

The  falling  of  a  tear, 
The  upward  glancing  of  an  eye, 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 


"  0  Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God,  — 
The  life,  the  truth,  the  way,  — 

The  path  of  prayer  thyself  hast  trod  ; 
Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray." 


"  The  next  day  was  Sunday.  True  was  in  the 
abit  of  going  to  church  half  the  day,  at  least, 
with  the  sexton's  family ;  but  Gerty,  having 


bonnet,  could  not  go,  and  True  would  not  leave 
her.  So  they  spent  the  morning  together,  wan- 
dering round  among  the  wharves,  and  looking  at 
the  ships,  Gerty  wearing  her  old  shawl,  pinned 
over  her  head.  In  the  afternoon  True  fell  asleep 
by  the  fireside,  and  Gerty  played  with  the  cat. 

"  Willie  came  in  the  evening ;  but  it  was  only 
to  say  good  by,  before  going  back  to  Mr.  Bray's. 
He  was  in  a  hurry,  and  could  not  stop  at  all ;  for 
his  master  had  a  sober  household,  and  liked  to 
have  his  doors  closed  early,  especially  Sunday 
night.  Old  Mr.  Cooper,  however,  made  his  usual 
visit ;  and,  when  he  had  gone,  True,  finding  Gerty 
sound  asleep  on  the  settle,  thought  it  a  pity  to 
wake  her,  and  laid  her  in  bed  with  her  clothes  on. 

"  She  did  not  wake  until  morning ;  and  then, 
much  surprised  and  amused  at  finding  herself 
dressed,  sprang  up  and  ran  out  to  ask  True  how 
it  happened.  True  was  busy  making  the  fire ; 
and  Gerty,  having  received  satisfactory  answers 
to  her  numerous  inquiries,  —  when  and  where  she 
fell  asleep,  and  how  she  came  in  bed,  —  applied 
herself  earnestly  to  help  in  every  possible  way 
about  getting  breakfast,  and  putting  the  room  in 
order.  She  followed  the  instructions  of  Willie's 
mother,  all  of  which  she  remembered,  and  showed 
a  wonderful  degree  of  capability  in  every  thing 
she  undertook.  In  the  course  of  the  few  "follow- 
ing weeks,  during  which  her  perseverance  held 
out  surprisingly,  she  learned  how  to  make  her- 
self useful  in  many  ways,  and,  as  Willie's  mother 
had  prophesied,  gave  promise  of  becoming,  one 
day,  quite  a  clever  little  housekeeper.  Of  course, 
the  services  she  performed  were  trifling ;  but  her 
active  and  willing  feet  saved  True  a  great  many 
steps,  and  she  was  of  essential  aid  in  keeping  the 
room  neat,  that  being  her  especial  ambition.  She 
felt  that  Willie's  mother  expected  her,  now  that 


the  dust  and  cobwebs  were  all  cleared  away,  to 
take  care  that  they  should  not  accumulate  again ; 
and  it  was  quite  an  amusing  sight,  every  day, 
when  True  had  gone  out,  as  usual,  to  fill  and 
clean  the  street  lamps,  to  see  the  little  girl  dili- 
gently laboring  with  an  old  broom,  the  handle  of 
which  was  cut  short  to  make  it  more  suitable  for 
her  use.  Willie's  mother  looked  in  occasionally, 
to  praise  and  assist  her ;  and  nothing  made  Gerty 
happier  than  learning  to  do  some  new  thing.  She 
met  with  a  few  trials  and  discouragements,  to  be 
sure.  In  two  or  three  instances  the  toast  got 
burned  to  a  cinder ;  and,  worse  still,  she  one  day 
broke  a  painted  teacup,  over  which  she  shed 
many  a  tear ;  but,  as  True  never  thought  of 
blaming  her  for  any  thing,  she  forgot  her  misfor- 
tunes, and  experience  made  her  careful. 

"  One  Sunday,  Gerty,  who  had  now  a  nice  little 
hood,  which  True  had  bought  for  her,  was  return- 
ing with  Mr.  Cooper,  Mr.  Flint,  and  Willie,  from 
the  afternoon  service  at  church.  The  two  old 
men  were  engaged  in  one  of  their  lengthy  dis- 
cussions, and  the  children,  having  fallen  into  the 
rear,  had  been  talking  earnestly  about  the  church, 
the  minister,  the  people,  and  the  music,  all  of 
which  were  new  to  Gerty,  and  greatly  excited  her 
wonder  and  astonishment. 

"As  they  drew  near  home  Willie  remarked 
how  dark  it  was  growing  in  the  streets ;  and  then 
looking  down  at  Gerty,  whom  he  held  by  the 
hand,  he  said,  '  Gerty,  do  you  ever  go  out  with 
Uncle  True,  and  see  "him  light  the  lamps  ? ' 

"  '  No,  I  never  did,'  said  Gerty,  '  since  the  first 
night  I  came.  I've  wanted  to,  but  it's  been  so 
cold  Uncle  True  would  not  let  me ;  he  said  I'd 
just  catch  the  fever  again.' 

"  •  It  won't  be  cold  this  evening,'  said  Willie  ; 
'  it'll  be  a  beautiful  night ;  and,  if  Uncle  True's 
willing,  let's  you  and  I  go  with  him.  I've  often 
been,  and  it's  first  rate ;  you  can  look  into  the 


UNCLE    TRUE    AND    LITTLE    GEETY. 


19 


windows,  and  see  folks  drinking  tea,  and  sitting 
all  round  the  fire  in  the  parlors.' 

"  '  And  I  like  to  see  him  light  those  great 
lamps,'  interrupted  Gerty,  '  they  make  it  look  so 
bright  and  beautiful  all  round.  I  hope  he'll  let 
us  go ;  I'll  ask  him ;  come,'  said  she,  pulling  him 
by  the  hand ;  '  let's  catch  up  with  them,  and  ask 
him  now.' 

"  '  No,  —  wait,'  said  Willie ;  '  he's  busy  talking 


with  grandpa ;  and  we're  almost  home,  — we  can 
ask  him  then.' 

"  He  could  hardly  restrain  her  impatience, 
however  ;  and,  as  soon  as  they  reached  the  gate, 
she  suddenly  broke  away  from  him,  and,  rushing 
up  to  True,  made  known  her  request.  The  plan 
was  willingly  acceded  to,  and  the  three  soon 
started  on  the  rounds." 


THE   CHILDREN'S  WALK  WITH   THE  OLD  LAMP- 
LIGHTER. 


"  Dear  Uncle  True,  pray  let  us  go," 

Once  little  Gerty  said, 
"  And  see  you  light  the  lamps  to-night, 

Which  such  glad  beams  may  shed." 

Dear  Willie  joined  in  this  request, 

And  Uncle  True  replied, 
"  I  like  to  have  you,  children  dear, 

Walk  prattling  at  my  side." 

So  through  the  streets  with  him  they  went, 

And  many  a  pleasant  sight 
Those  youthful  eyes  oft  met.  beside 

The  lantern's  pleasant  light. 

Within  one  house  were  children  fair, 

So  fair  that  Gerty's  heart 
With  pleasure  leaped,  because  a  joy 

Such  beauty  could  impart. 

At  last,  to  "  old  Nan  Grant's,"  they  came, 

That  hovel  drear  and  old  ; 
And  Nan  was  there,  still  proving  how 

To  neighbors  she  could  scold. 

With  anger  there  did  Gerty  look, 

Till  Willie  bade  her  come, 
And  when  she  moved  not,  would  not  wait, 

But  hastened  towards  his  home. 


20 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE    GERTY. 


"  Gerty  turned,  saw  that  he  was  going,  then, 
quick  as  lightning,  stooped,  and,  picking  up  a 
stone  from  the  sidewalk,  flung  it  at  the  window. 
There  was  a  crash  of  broken  glass,  and  an  ex- 
clamation in  Nan's  well-known  voice ;  but  Gerty 
was  not  there  to  see  the  result  of  her  work.  The 
instant  the  stone  had  left  her  hand,  and  she 
heard  the  crash,  her  fears  all  returned,  and,  fly- 
ing past  Willie,  she  paused  not  until  she  was  safe 
by  the  side  of  True.  Willie  did  not  overtake  them 
until  they  were  nearly  home,  and  then  came  run- 
ning up,  exclaiming  breathlessly,  •  Why,  Gerty,  do 
you  know  what  you  did  ?  You  broke  the  window ! ' 

"  Gerty  ierked  her  shoulders  from  side  to  side 
to  avoid  Willie,  pouted,  and  declared  that  was 
what  she  meant  to  do. 

"  True  now  inquired  what  window ;  and  Gerty 


unhesitatingly  acknowledged  what  she  had  done, 
and  avowed  that  she  did  it  on  purpose.  True 
and  Willie  were  shocked  and  silent.  Gerty  was 
silent,  too,  for  the  rest  of  the  walk  ;  there  were 
clouds  on  her  face,  and  she  felt  unhappy  in  her 
little  heart.  She  did  not  understand  herself  or 
her  own  sensations ;  we  may  not  say  how  far  she 
was  responsible  for  them,  but  this  much  is  cer- 
tain, her  face  alone  betrayed  that,  as  evil  took 
violent  possessjon  of  her  soul,  peace  and  pleas- 
antness fled  away.  Poor  child!  how  much  she 
needs  to  learn  the  truth !  God  grant  that  the 
inward  may  one  day  become  as  dear  to  her  as 
now  the  outward  light ! 

"Willie  bade  them  good  night  at  the  house 
door,  and,  as  usual,  they  saw  no  more  of  him  for 
a  week." 


GERTY  IN  THE  CHURCH. 


"  '  Father,'  said  Willie's  mother,  one  afternoon 
as  he  was  preparing  to  go  put,  and  to  take  with 
him  a  number  of  articles  which  he  wanted  for  his 
Saturday's  work  in  the  church,  '  why  don't  you 
get  little  Gerty  to  go  with  you,  and  carry  some 
of  your  things  ?  You  can't  take  them  all  at 
once  ;  and  she'd  like  to  go,  I  know." 

"  '  She'd  only  be  in  the  way,"  said  Mr.  Cooper ; 
4 1  can  take  them  myself.' 

"  But  when  he  had  swung  a  lantern  and  an 
empty  coal-hod  on  one  arm,  taken  a  little  hatchet 
and  a  basket  of  kindlings  in  his  hand,  and  hoisted 
a  small  ladder  over  his  shoulder,  he  was  fain  to 
acknowledge  that  there  was  no  accommodation 
for  his  hammer  and  a  large  paper  of  nails. 

"  So  Willie's  mother  called  Gerty,  and  asked 
her  to  go  to  the  church  with  Mr.  Cooper,  and  help 
him  carry  his  tools. 

"  Gerty  was  very  much  pleased  with  the  pro- 
posal, and,  taking  the  hammer  and  nails,  started 
off  with  great  alacrity. 

"  When  they  reached  the  church,  the  old  sex- 
ton took  them  from  her  hands,  and,  telling  her 
she  could  play  about  until  he  went  home,  but  to 
be  sure  and  do  no  mischief,  left  her  and  went 
down  into  the  vestry  room  to  commence  there  his 
operation  of  sweeping,  dusting,  and  building 
fires.  Gerty  was  thus  left  to  her  own  amuse- 
ment ;  and  ample  amusement  she  found  it,  for 
some  time,  to  wander  round  among  the  empty 
aisles  and  pews,  and  examine  closely  what,  hith- 
erto, she  had  only  viewed  from  a  corner  of  the 
gallery.  Then  she  ascended  the  pulpit,  and  in 
imagination  addressed  a  large  audience.  She 
was  just  beginning  to  grow  weary  and  restless, 
however,  when  the  organist,  who  had  entered  un- 
perceived,  commenced  playing  some  low,  sweet 
music ;  and  Gerty,  seating  herself  on  the  pulpit 
stairs,  listened  with  the  greatest  attention  and 


pleasure.  He  had  not  played  long  before  the 
door  at  the  foot  of  the  broad  aisle  opened,  and  a 
couple  of  visitors  entered,  in  observing  whom 
Gerty  was  soon  wholly  engrossed.  One  was  an 
elderly  man,  dressed  like  a  clergyman,  short  and 
spare,  with  hair  thin  and  gray,  forehead  high, 
and  features  rather  sharp  ;  but,  though  a  plain 
man,  remarkable  for  his  calm  and  benignant  ex- 
pression of  countenance.  A  young  lady,  appar-  < 
ently  about  twenty-five  years  of  age,  was  lean- 
ing on  his  arm.  She  was  attired  with  great 
simplicity,  wearing  a  dark-brown  cloak,  and  a 
bonnet  of  the  same  color,  relieved  by  some  light- 
blue  ribbon  about  the  face.  The  only  article  of 
her  dress  which  was  either  rich  or  elegant  was 
some  beautiful  dark  fur,  fastened  at  her  throat 
with  a  costly  enamelled  slide.  She  was  some- 
what below  the  middle  size,  but  had  a  pleasing 
and  well-rounded  figure.  Her  features  were  small 
and  regular ;  her  complexion  clear,  though  rather 
pale ;  and  her  light-brown  hair  was  most  neatly 
and  carefully  arranged.  She  never  lifted  her  eyes 
as  she  walked  slowly  up  the  aisle,  and  the  long 
lashes  nearly  swept  her  cheek. 

"  The  two  approached  the  spot  where  Gerty 
sat,  but  without  perceiving  her." 

The  gentleman  having  left  the  lady  for  a  time, 
she  sat  down  in  a  chair  near  the  pulpit,  listening 
to  the  organist's  music.  After  a  time  Gerty 
moved  from  her  seat ;  the  lady  heard  her,  and 
asked,  "  Who's  there  ?  "  Then  Gerty  went  and 
stood  by  the  lady,  and  they  talked  together. 
When  Gerty  had  told  her  own  name,  she  asked 
the  lady  what  her  name  was. 

"  '  My  name  is  Emily  Graham.' 

"  '  O,"  I  know,'  said  Gerty,  springing  suddenly 
up,  and  clapping  her  hands  together ;  '  I  know. 
You  asked  him  to  keep  me ;  he  said  so  —  I 
heard  him  say  so ;  and  you  gave  me  my  clothes  ; 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE    GERTY. 


21 


and  you're  beautiful ;  and  you're  good ;    and  I 
love  you  !     O,  I  love  you  ever  so  much  ! ' 

"  As  Gerty  spoke  with  a  voice  full  of  excite- 
ment, a  strange  look  passed  over  Miss  Graham's 


face,  a  most  inquiring  and  restless  look,  as  if  the 
tones  of  the  voice  had  vibrated  on  a  chord  of  her 
memory.  She  did  not  speak,  but,  passing  her  arm 
round  the  child's  waist,  drew  her  closer  to  her." 


To  Gerty's  eyes"  the  church  was  grand, 
The  windows  full  of  beauty  ; 

For  ne'er  with  Nan  to  church  she  went- 
Nan  deemed  not  such  her  duty. 

The  lofty  organ's  peal  to  her 
In  tones  of  grandeur  sounded, 

And  woke  new  joys  in  one  whose  life 
With  ignorance  abounded. 

She  felt  that  other >  newer  themes 
Were  opening  to  her  spirit ; 

The  organ  seemed  to  speak  of  God, 
And  Gerty  loved  to  hear  it. 

For  Uncle  True,  and  Willie  kind, 
Had  taught  the  little  maiden 

That  every  hour  of  every  day 
Is  with  God's  blessings  laden ;  — 

That  every  joy  her  spirit  knew 

Was  by  that  Father  given, 
And  she  must  take  with  thankful  heart 

Each  gift  bestowed  by  Heaven. 

While  Gerty  in  the  church  remained, 

A  lady  came  and  waited  ; 
And  then  met  Gerty  one  whose  deed 

Old  True  had  oft  related. 

A  while  they  talked  together  there, 
And  Gerty's  heart  was  gladdened, 

Till  Gerty  from  the  lady  learned 
That  which  her  spirit  saddened. 


"  As  the  peculiar  expression  passed  away  frrfm 
Miss  Graham's  face,  and  her  features  assumed 
their  usual  calm  composure,  Gerty,  as  she  gazed 
at  her  with  a  look  of  wonder,  (a  look  which  the 


child  had  worn  during  the  whole  of  the  conversa- 
tion,)  exclaimed,  at  last,   '  Are   y  u  going  to 
sleep  ? ' 
•••No.    Why?' 


f 


22 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE   GERTY. 


" '  Because  your  eyes  are  shut.' 

"  '  They  are  always  shut,  my  child.' 

« •  Always  shut !    What  for  ? ' 

"  '  I  am  blind,  Gerty.    I  can  see  nothing.' 

"  '  Not  see ! '  said  Gerty ;  '  can't  you  see  any 
thing  ?  Can't  you  see  me  now  ? ' 

"  'No,'  said  Miss  Graham. 

"  '  O,'  exclaimed  Gerty,  drawing  a  long  hreath, 
'  I'm  so  glad.' 

"'  Glad?'  said  Miss  Graham,  in  the  saddest 
voice  that  ever  was  heard. 

"  '  O,  yes  ! '  said  Gerty,  '  so  glad  you  can't  see 
me  !  —  because  now,  perhaps,  you'll"  love  me.' 

"  '  And  shouldn't  1  love  you  if  I  saw  you  ? ' 
said  Emily,  passing  her  hand  softly  and  slowly 
over  the  child's  features. 

"  '  O,  no ! '  answered  Gerty ;  '  I'm  so  ugly  ! 
I'm  glad  you  can't  see  how  ugly  I  am.' 

"  '  But,  just  think,  Gerty,'  said  Emily,  in  the 
same  sad  voice,  '  how  would  you  feel  if  you  could 
not  see  the  light  —  could  not  see  any  thing  in  the 
world  ? ' 

"  '  Can't  you  see  the  sun,  and  the  stars,  and 
the  sky,  and  the  church  we're  in  ?  Are  you  in 
the  dark  ? ' 

" '  In  the  dark  all  the  time,  day  and  night  in 
the  dark.' 

"  Gerty  burst  into  a  paroxysm  of  tears.  '  O,' 
exclaimed  she,  as  soon  as  she  could  find  voice 
amid  her  sobs, '  it's  too  bad !  it's  too  bad ! ' 


"  The  child's  grief  was  contagious ;  and,  for 
the  first  time  for  years,  Emily  wept  bitterly  for 
her  blindness.  It  was  but  for  a  few  moments, 
however.  Quickly  recovering  herself,  she  tried 
to  compose  the  child  also,  saying,  «  Hush  !  hush ! 
don't  cry ;  and  don't  say  it's  too  bad  !  It's  not 
too  bad;  I  can  bear  it  very  well.  I'm  used  to  it, 
and  am  quite  happy.' 

"  '  I  shouldn't  be  happy  in  the  dark  ;  I  should 
hate  to  be ! '  said  Gerty.  '  1  ain't  glad  you're 
blind  ;  I'm  real  sorry.  I  wish  you  could  see  me 
and  every  thing.  Can't  your  eyes  be  opened,  any 
way  ? ' 

"  '  No,'  said  Emily,  « never ;  but  we  won't  talk 
about  that  any  more ;  we'll  talk  about  you.  I 
want  to  know  what  makes  you  think  yourself  so 
very  ugly.' 

" '  Because  folks  say  that  I'm  an  ugly  child, 
and  that  nobody  loves  ugly  children.' 

"  '  Yes,  people  do,'  said  Emily,  '  love  ugly  chil- 
dren, if  they  are  good.' 

"  '  But  I  ain't  good,'  said  Gerty ;  '  I'm  real  bad.' 

"  '  But  you  can  be  good,'  said  Emily,  '  and  then 
every  body  will  love  you.' 

"  '  Do  you  think  I  can  be  good  ? ' 

"  «  Yes,  if  you  try.' 

"  '  I  will  try.' 

"  •  I  hope  you  will,'  said  Emily.  « Mr.  Flint 
thinks  a  great  deal  of  his  little  girl,  and  she  must 
do  all  she  can  to  please  him.' " 


GERTY   AT   SCHOOL. 


••  One  Saturday  evening,  when  Willie  was 
present,  True  broached  the  subject  of  Gerty 's 
going  to  school.  Gerty  herself  was  very  much 
disgusted  with  the  idea ;  but  it  met  with  Willie's 
warm  approbation,  and  when  Gerty  learned  that 
Miss  Graham  also  wished  it,  she  consented, 
though  rather  reluctantly,  to  begin  the  next 
week,  and  try  how  she  liked  it.  So,  on  the  fol- 
lowing Monday,  Gerty  accompanied  True  to  one 
of  the  primary  schools,  was  admitted,  and  her 
education  commenced.  When  Willie  came  home 
the  next  Saturday,  he  rushed  into  True's  room, 
full  of  eagerness  to  hear  how  Gerty  liked  go- 
ing to  school.  He  found  her  seated  at  the 
table,  with  her  spelling  book ;  and,  as  soon  as  he 
entered,  she  exclaimed,  '  O  Willie  !  Willie !  come 
and  hear  me  read ! ' 

"  Her  performance  could  not  properly  be  called 
reading.  She  had  not  got  beyond  the  alphabet, 
and  a  few  syllables  which  she  had  learned  to 
spell ;  but  Willie  bestowed  upon  her  much  well- 
merited  praise,  for  she  had  really  been  very  dili- 
gent He  was  astonished  to  hear  that  Gerty 


liked  going  to  school,  liked  the  teacher  and  the 
scholars,  and  had  a  fine  time  at  recess.  He  had 
fully  expected  that  she  would  dislike  the  whole 
business,  and  very  probably  go  into  tantrums 
about  it,  —  which  was  the  expression  he  used  to 
denote  her  fits  of  ill  temper.  On  the  contrary, 
every  thing,  thus  far,  had  gone  well,  and  Gerty 
had  never  looked  so  animated  and  happy  as  she 
did  this  evening.  Willie  promised  to  assist  her 
in  her  studies ;  and  the  two  children's  literary 
plans  soon  became  as  highflown  as  if  one  had 
been  a  poet  laureate  and  the  other  a  philosopher. 

"  For  two  or  three  weeks  all  appeared  to  go  on 
smoothly.  Gerty  went  regularly  to  school,  and 
continued  to  make  rapid  progress.  Every  Sat- 
urday Willie  heard  her  read  and  spell,  assisted, 
praised,  and  encouraged  her.  He  had,  however, 
a  shrewd  suspicion  that,  on  one  or  two  occasions, 
she  had  come  near  having  a  brush  with  some 
large  girls,  for  whom  she  began  to  show  symp- 
toms of  dislike.  Whatever  the  difficulty  originat- 
ed in,  it  soon  reached  a  crisis. 

"  One  day,  when  the  children  were  assembled 


UNCLE    TRUE   AND    LITTLE    GERTY. 


23 


in  the  school  yard,  during  recess,  Gerty  caught 
sight  of  True  in  his  working  dress,  just  passing 
down  the  street,  with  his  ladder  and  lamp-filler. 
Shouting  and  laughing,  she  bounded  out  of  the 
yard,  pursued  and  overtook  him.  She  came  back 
in  a  few  minutes,  seeming  much  delighted  at  the 
unexpected  rencounter,  and  ran  back  into  the 
yard  out  of  breath,  and  full  of  happy  excitement. 
The  troop  of  large  girls,  whom  Gerty  had  al- 
ready some  reason  to  distrust,  had  been  observing 
her,  and,  as  soon  as  she  returned,  one  of  them 
called  out,  saying,  — 

"  '  Who's  that  man  ? ' 

"  '  That's  my  Uncle  True,'  said  Gerty. 

"  •  Your  what  ? ' 

"  '  My  uncle,  Mr.  Flint,  that  I  live  with.' 


" '  So  you  belong  to  him,  do  you  ? '  said  the 

girl,  in  an  insolent  tone  of  voice.     '  Ha,  ha,  ha !  * 

"  '  What  are  you  laughing  at  ? '  said  Gerty, 

"  '  Ugh  !  Before  I'd  live  with  him ! '  said  the 
girl  — 'old  Smutty!'  • 

"  The  others  caught  it  up,  and  the  laugh  and 
epithet  Old  Smutty  circulated  freely  in  the  corner 
of  the  yard  where  Gerty  was  standing. 

"  Gerty  was  furious.  Her  eyes  glistened,  as 
she  doubled  her  little  fist,  and,  without  hesita- 
tion, came  down  in  battle  upon  the  crowd.  But 
they  were  too  many  for  her,  and,  helpless  as  she 
was  with  passion,  they  drove  her  out  of  the  yard. 
She  started  for  home  on  a  full  run,  screaming 
with  all  her  might." 


The  naughty  girls  in  Gerty's  school 

Her  Uncle  True  derided, 
And  for  her  love  of  one  so  kind 

Poor  Gerty  oft  was  chided. 

But  with  a  spirit,  though  so  young, 
That  then  was  proud  and  haughty, 

She  sought  her  guardian  to  defend, 
And  spoke  some  words  quite  naughty. 

From  words  to  blows  is  but  a  step, 
As  many  a  bondman  knoweth, 

When  overseer  with  cruel  taunts 
His  wicked  passion  showeth. 

So  Gerty  fell  upon  her  mates, 
From  passion  boldly  striking, 

As  if  it  was  a  glorious  deed 
To  be  for  insult  fighting. 

Then  rushing  to  her  humble  home, 
Poor  Gerty,  sobbing  wildly, 

Was  overheard  by  that  kind  friend 
Who  ever  spoke  so  mildly. 


Her  gentle  words  and  accents  kind 
Were  to  the  child  so  winning, 

She  soon  repented  of  her  deeds, 
And  wished  to  leave  off  sinning. 


UNCLE    TRUE    AND    LITTLE    GERTY. 


"  '  Do  you  not  wish  God  to  forgive  and  love 
you  ? '  asked  Miss  Graham. 

"'God,  that  lives  in  heaven  —  that  made  the 
stars  ? '  said  Gerty. 

« « Yes.' 

"  '  Will  he  love  me,  and  let  me  some  time  go 
to  heaven  ? ' 

"  '  Yes,  if  you  try  to  be  good,  and  love  every 
body.' 

"  '  Miss  Emily,'  said  Gerty,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  '  I  can't  do  it  —  so  I  s'pose  I  can't  go.' 

"  Just  at  this  moment  a  tear  fell  upon  Gerty's 
forehead.  She  looked  thoughtfully  up  in  Emily's 
face,  then  said,  '  Dear  Miss  Emily,  are  you  go- 
ing?' 

"  '  I  am  trying  to.' 

"  '  I  should  like  to  go  with  you,'  said  Gerty, 
shaking  her  head,  meditatively. 

"  Still  Emily  did  not  speak.  She  left  the  child 
to  the  working  of  her  own  thoughts. 

" '  Miss  Emily,'  said  Gerty,  at  last,  in  the 
lowest  whisper,  '  I  mean  to  try,  but  I  don't  think 
I  can.' 

"  '  God  bless  you,  and  help  you,  my  child,' 
said  Emily,  laying  her  hand  upon  Gerty's  head. 

"  For  fifteen  minutes,  or  more,  not  a  word  was 
spoken  by  either.  Gerty  lay  perfectly  still  in 
Emily's  lap.  By  and  by  the  latter  perceived,  by 
the  child's  breathing,  that,  worn  out  with  the 
fever  and  excitement  of  all  she  had  gone  through, 
she  had  dropped  into  a  quiet  sleep.  When  Mrs. 


Ellis  "  (the  lady  who  had  led  Emily  there)  "  re- 
turned, Emily  pointed  to  the  sleeping  child,  and 
asked  her  to  place  her  on  the  bed.  She  did  so, 
wonderingly ;  and  then,  turning  to  Emily,  ex- 
claimed, '  Upon  my  word,  Miss  Emily,  that's  the 
same  rude,  bawling  little  creature,  that  came  so 
near  being  the  death  of  us.' "  (Gerty  had  run 
against  Mrs.  Ellis  on  her  way  home  from  school.) 
"  Emily  smiled  at  the  idea  of  a  child  eight  years 
old  overthrowing  a  woman  of  Mrs.  Ellis's  inches, 
but  said  nothing. 

"  Why  did  Emily  weep  long  that  night,  as  she 
recalled  the  scenes  of  the  morning  ?  Why  did 
she,  on  bended  knee,  wrestle  so  vehemently  with 
a  mighty  sorrow  ?  Why  did  she  pray  so  earnestly 
for  new  strength  and  heavenly  aid?  Why  did 
she  so  beseechingly  ask  of  God  his  blessing  on 
the  little  child  ?  Because  she  had  felt,  in  many 
a  year  of  darkness  and  bereavement,  in  many  an 
hour  of  fearful  struggle,  in  many  a  pang  of  de- 
spair, how  a  temper  like  that  which  Gerty  had  this 
day  shown  might,  in  one  moment  of  its  fearful 
reign,  cast  a  blight  upon  a  lifetime,  and  write  in 
fearful  Jines  the  mournful  requiem  of  earthly 
joy.  And  so  she  prayed  to  Heaven  that  night  for 
strength  to  keep  her  firm  resolve,  and  aid  in  ful- 
filling her  undying  purpose,  to  cure  the  child  of 
her  dark  infirmity." 

Miss  Graham,  with  the  help  of  God,  was  suc- 
cessful, and  when  Gerty  reached  womanhood  she 
had  learned  to  control  her  passions. 


WILLIE'S    REWARD. 


"  One  Saturday  evening  in  December,  the  third 
winter  of  Gerty's  residence  with  True,  Willie 
came  in  with  his  French  books  under  his  arm, 
and,  after  the  first  salutations  were  over,  ex- 
claimed, as  he  threw  the  grammar  and  dictionary 
upon  the  table,  '  O  Gerty !  before  we  begin  to 
study  I  must  tell  you  and  Uncle  True  the  fun- 
niest thing,  that  happened  to-day  ;  I  have  been 
laughing  so  at  home,  as  I  was  telling  mother 
about  it.' 

"  '  I  heard  you  laugh,'  said  Gerty.  '  If  I  had 
not  been  so  busy  I  should  have  gone  into  your 
mother's  room  to  hear  what  it  was  so  very  droll. 
But,  come,  do  tell  us.' 

"  '  Why,  you  will  not  think  it  is  any  thing  like 
a  joke  when  I  begin;  and  I  should  not  be  so 
much  amused,  if  she  hadn't  been  the  very  queer- 
est old  woman  that  I  ever  saw  in  my  life. 

"  '  Old  woman  !  —  you  haven't  told  us  about 
any  old  woman.' 

"  '  But  I'm  going  to,'  said  Willie.  '  You  no- 
ticed how  every  thing  was  covered  with  ice  this 
morning.  How  splendidly  it  looked,  didn't  it  ? 


I  declare,  when  the  sun  shone  on  that  great  elm 
tree  in  front  of  our  shop,  I  thought  I  never  saw 
any  thing  so  handsome  in  my  life.  But,  there, 
that's  nothing  to  do  with  my  old  woman,  —  only 
that  the  sidewalks  were  just  like  every  thing  else, 
a  perfect  glare.' 

"  '  I  know  it,'  interrupted  Gerty  ;  '  I  fell  down, 
going  to  school.' 

"  '  Did  you  ? '  said  Willie  ;  '  didn't  you  get 
hurt?' 

"  '  No,  indeed.  But  go  on ;  I  want  to  hear 
about  your  old  woman.' 

" '  I  was  standing  at  the  shop  door,  about 
eleven  o'clock,  looking  out,  when  I  saw  the 
strangest  looking  figure  that  you  ever  imagined 
coming  down  the  street.  I  must  tell  you  how 
she  was  dressed.  She  did  look  so  ridiculous  ! 
She  had  on  some  kind  of  a  black  silk  or  satin 
gown,  made  very  scant,  and  trimmed  all  round 
with  some  brownish-looking  lace,  (black,  I  sup- 
pose it  had  been  once,  but  it  isn't  now  ;)  then  she 
had  a  gray  cloak,  of  some  sort  of  silk  material, 
that  you  certainly  would  have  said  came  out  of 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE    GERTT. 


25 


the  ark,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  a  little  cape,  of  a 
different  color,  that  she  wore  outside  of  it,  and 
which  must  have  dated  a  generation  farther  back. 
I  would  not  undertake  to  describe  her  bonnet  ; 
only  I  know  it  was  twice  as  big  as  any  body's 
else,  and  she  had  a  figured  lace  veil  thrown  over 
one  side,  that  reached  nearly  to  her  feet.  But 
her  goggles  were  the  crowner  ;  such  immense, 
horrid-looking  things  I  never  saw  !  She  had  a 
work  bag,  made  of  black  silk,  with  pieces  of 
cloth  of  all  the  colors  in  the  rainbow  sewed  on  to 
it,  zigzag  ;  then  her  pocket  handkerchief  was 


pinned  to  her  bag,  and  a  great  feather  fan  (only 
think,  at  this  season  of  the  year!)  that  was 
pinned  on  somewhere  (by  a  string,  I  suppose), 
and  a  bundle  handkerchief  and  a  newspaper  !  O, 
gracious  !  I  can't  think  of  half  the  things  ;  but 
they  were  all  pinned  together  with  great  brass 
pins,  and  hung  in  a  body  on  her  left  arm,  all  de- 
pending upon  the  strength  of  her  bag  string. 
Her  dress,  though,  wasn't  the  strangest  thing 
about  her.  What  made  it  too  funny  was  to  see 
her  way  of  walking  ;  she  looked  quite  old  and  in- 
firm, and  it  was  evident  she  could  hardly  keep 
her  footing  on  the  ice  ;  and  yet  she  walked  with 
such  a  smirk,  such  a  consequential  little  air  !  O, 
Gertv,  it's  lucky  you  didn't  see  her  ;  you'd  have 
laughed  from  then  till  this  time.' 

"  '  Some  poor  crazy  crittur,  wasn't  she  ?  '  asked 
True. 

"  '  O,  no!"  said  "Willie,  'I  don't  think  she 
was;  queer  enough,  to  be  sure,  but  not  crazy. 
Just  as  she  got  opposite  the  shop  door  her  feet 
slipped,  and  the  first  thing  I  knew,  she  fell  flat 
on  the  sidewalk.  I  rushed  out,  for  I  thought  the 
fall  might  have  killed  the  poor  little  thing  ;  and 
Mr.  Bray,  and  a  gentleman  he  was  waiting  upon, 
followed  me.  She  did  appear  stunned,  at  first  ; 
but  we  carried  her  into  the  shop,  and  she  came  to 
her  senses  in  a  minute  or  two.  Crazy,  you  asked 
if  she  were,  Uncle  Tme.  No,  not  she  !  She's  as 
bright  as  a  dollar.  As  soon  as  she  opened  her 
eyes,  and  seemed  to  know  what  she  was  about, 
she  felt  for  her  work  bag,  and  all  its  appendages  ; 
counted  them  up,  to  see  if  the  number  were 
right,  and  then  nodded  her  head  very  satisfac- 
torily. Mr.  Bray  poured  out  a  glass  of  cordial, 


and  offered  it  to  her.  By  this  time  she  had  got 
her  airs  and  graces  back  again  ;  so,  when  he  rec- 
ommended to  her  to  swallow  the  cordial,  she 
retreated,  with  an  old-fashioned  courtesy,  and  put 
up  both  hands  to  express  her  horror  at  the  idea 
of  such  a  thing.  The  gentleman  that  was  stand- 
ing by  smiled,  and  advised  her  to  take  it,  telling 
her  it  would  do  her  no  harm.  Upon  that  she 
turned  round,  made  another  courtesy  to  him,  and 
answered,  in  a  little  cracked  voice,  "  Can  you  as- 
sure me,  sir,  as  a  gentleman  of  candor  and  gal- 
lantry, that  it  is  not  an  exhilarating  potion  ? " 
The  gentleman  could  hardly  keep  from  laughing; 
but  he  told  her  it  was  nothing  that  would  hurt 
her.  "  Then,"  said  she,  "  I  will  venture  to  sip 
the  beverage  ;  it  has  a  most  aromatic  fragrance." 
She  seemed  to  like  the  taste,  as  well  as  the 
smell,  for  she  drank  every  drop  of  it ;  and  when 
she  had  set  the  glass  down  on  the  counter,  she 
turned  to  me,  and  said,  "  Except  upon  this  gen- 
tleman's assurance  of  the  harmlessness  of  the 
liquid,  I  would  not  have  swallowed  it  in  your 
presence,  my  young  master,  if  it  were  only  for 
the  example.  I  have  set  my  seal  to  no  temperance 
pledge  ;  but  I  am  abstemious  because  it  becomes  a 
lady  ;  it  is  with  me  a  matter  of  choice  —  a  mat- 
ter of  taste."  She  now  seemed  quite  restored, 
and  talked  of  starting  again  on  her  walk ;  but  it 
really  was  not  safe  for  her  to  go  alone  on  the  ice, 
and  I  rather  think  Mr.  Bray  thought  so,  for  he 
asked  her  where  she  was  going.  She  told  him, 
in  her  roundabout  way,  that  she  was  proceeding 
to  pass  the  day  with  Mistress  somebody,  that 
lived  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  Common.  I 
touched  Mr.  Bray's  arm,  and  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
that,  if  he  could  spare  me,  I'd  go  with  her.  He 
said  he  should  not  want  me  for  an  hour ;  so  I 
offered  her  my  arm,  and  told  her  I  should  be 
happy  to  wait  on  her.  You  ought  to  have  seen 
her  then !  If  I  had  been  a  grown-up  man,  and 
she  a  young  lady,  she  couldn't  have  tossed  her 
head  or  giggled  more.  But  she  took  my  arm, 
and  we  started  off.  I  knew  Mr.  Bray  and  the 
gentleman  were  laughing  to  see  us,  but  I  didn't 
care ;  I  pitied  the  old  lady,  and  I  did  not  mean 
she  should  get  another  tumble.'  " 


Young  Willie  was  a  lad  so  kind, 
He  wished  his  aid  to  lend, 

"Whatever  might  be  the  dress  or  words 
Of  stranger  or  of  friend. 


A  lady  he  one  day  espied, 

As  on  the  ice  she  fell, 
And  though  so  curious  her  attire, 

So  strange  to  hear  her  tell; — 


26 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE    GERTY. 


In  language  quaint,  her  errand  forth, 

Yet  Willie  smothered  quite 
The  rising  laugh,  and  asked  to  be 

Her  escort,  —  "  gallant  knight  1 " 

Then  safely  o'er  the  ice  she  passed, 

While  leaning  on  his  arm, 
The  presence  of  the  noble  lad 

Protecting  her  from  harm. 

She  did  not  soon  forget  the  deed, 

And  she  was  grateful,  too, 
For  when  poor  Willie  lost  his  friend, — 

His  early  friend  and  true,  — 

She  gained  a  place  for  Willie  kind, 
Where  wealth  he  might  attain, 

And  then  his  mother  dear  support, 
And  buy  a  home  again. 

So  Willie  gained  a  just  reward, 

But  in  his  youthful  heart 
The  consciousness  of  doing  right 

Could  higher  joy  impart. 

And  evermore  the  truly  good, 

The  gentle  and  the  kind, 
The  bondman's  and  the  poor  man's  friend, 

A  sweet  reward  shall  find. 


GERTY'S   BEREAVEMENT. 


"  '  I  wonder,'  said  Miss  Peekout,  as  she  leaned 
both  her  hands  on  the  sill  of  the  front  window, 
and  looked  up  and  down  the  street,  —  a  habit  in 
which  she  indulged  herself  for  about  ten  minutes 
after  she  had  washed  up  the  breakfast  things, 
and  before  she  trimmed  the  solar  lamp,  — '  I  won- 
der who  that  slender  girl  is  that  walks  by  here 
every  morning,  with  that  feeble-looking  old  man 
leaning  on  her  arm!  1  always  see  them  at  just 


about  this  time,  when  the  weather  and  walking 
are  good.  She's  a  nice  child,  I  know,  and  seems 
to  be  very  fond  of  the  old  man,  probably  her 
grandfather.  I  notice  she's  careful  to  leave  the 
beat  side  of  the  walk  for  him,  and  she  watches 
every  step  he  takes  ;*she  needs  to,  indeed,  for  he 
totters  sadly.  Poor  little  thing  !  she  looks  pale 
and  anxious ;  I  wonder  if  she  takes  all  the  care 
of  the  old  man ! '  But  they  are  quite  out  of 


UNCLE    TRUE    AND    LITTLE    GERTY. 


27 


sight,  and  Miss  Peekout  turns  round  to  wonder 
whether  the  solar  lamp  doesn't  need  a  new  wick. 

"  '  I  wonder,'  said  old  Mrs.  Grumble,  as  she  sat 
at  her  window,  a  little  farther  down  the  street, 
'if  I  should  live  to  be  old  and  infirm  (Mrs.  Grum- 
ble was  over  seventy,  but  as  yet  suffered  from  no 
infirmity  but  that  of  a  very  irritable  temper}, —  I 
wonder  if  any  body  would  wait  upon  me,  and  take 
care  of  me,  as  that  little  girl  does  of  her  grand- 
father!  No,  I'll  warrant  not!  Who  can  the 
patient  little  creature  be  ? ' 

"  '  There,  look,  Belle  ! '  said  one  young  girl  to 
another,  as  they  walked  up  the  shady  side  of  the 
street,  on  their  way  to  school ;  '  there's  the  girl 
that  we  meet  every  day  with  the  old  man.  How 
can  you  say  you  don't  think  she's  pretty  ?  I  ad- 
mire her  looks  ! ' 

"  '  You  always  do  manage,  Kitty,  to  admire 
people  that  every  body  else  thinks  are  horrid 
looking.' 

"  '  Horrid  looking  ! '  replied  Kitty,  in  a  pro- 
voked tone ;  '  she's  any  thing  but  horrid  looking  ! 
Do  notice,  now,  Belle,  when  we  meet  them ;  she 
has  the  sweetest  way  of  looking  up  in  the  old 
man's  face,  and  talking  to  him.  1  wonder  what 
is  the  matter  with  him !  Do  see  how  his  arm 
shakes  —  the  one  that's  passed  through  hers.' 

'•  The  two  couples  are  now  close  to  each  other, 
and  they  pass  in  silence. 

"  '  Don't  you  think  she  has  an  interesting 
face  ? '  said  Kitty,  eagerly,  as  soon  as  they  were 
out  of  hearing. 

"  '  She's  got  handsome  eyes,'  answered  Belle. 
'  I  don't  see  any  thing  else  that  looks  interesting 
about  her.  I  wonder  if  she  don't  hate  to  have  to 
walk  in  the  street  with  that  old  grandfather ; 
trudging  so  slow,  with  the  sun  shining  right  in 
her  face,  and  he  leaning  on  her  arm,  and  shaking 
so  he  can  hardly  stand  on  his  feet !  I  wouldn't 
do  it  for  any  thing.' 

" '  Why,  Belle ! '  exclaimed  Kitty, '  how  can  you 
talk  so  ?  I'm  sure  I  pity  that  old  man  dreadfully.' 

"  '  Lor','  sixid  Belle,  '  what's  the  use  of  pity- 
ing ?  If  you  are  going  to  begin  to  pity,  you'll 
have  to  do  it  all  the  time.  Look,"  —  and  here 
Belle  touched  her  companion's  elbow,  — '  there's 
Willie  Sullivan,  father's  clerk ;  an't  he  a  beauty  ? 
I  want  to  stop  and  speak  to  him.' 

"  But,  before  she  could  address  a  word  to  him, 
Willie,  who  was  walking  very  fast,  passed  her 


with  a  bow,  and  a  pleasant  '  Good  morning,  Miss 
Isabel,'  and,  ere  she  had  recovered  from  the  sur- 
prise and  disappointment,  was  some  rods  down 
the  street. 

"  '  Polite  ! '  muttered  the  pretty  Isabel. 

"  •  Why,  Belle !  do  see,'  said  Kitty,  who  was 
looking  over  her  shoulder;  'he's  overtaken  the 
old  man  and  my  interesting  little  girl.  Look  — 
look  !  He's  put  the  old  man's  other  arm  through, 
his,  and  they  are  all  three  walking  off  together. 
Isn't  that  quite  a  coincidence  ? ' 

"  « Nothing  very  remarkable,'  replied  Belle, 
who  seemed  a  little  annoyed.  '  I  suppose  they 
are  persons  he's  acquainted  with.  Come,  mako 
haste ;  we  shall  be  late  at  school.' 

"Reader,  do  you  wonder  who  they  are,  the 
girl  and  the  old  man  ?  or  have  you  already  con- 
lectured  that  they  are  no  other  than  Gerty  and 
Trueman  Flint  ?  True  is  no  longer  the  brave, 
strong,  sturdy  protector  of  the  feeble,  lonely  lit- 
tle child.  The  cases  are  quite  reversed.  True 
has  had  a  paralytic  stroke.  His  strength  is  gone, 
his  power  even  to  walk  alone.  He  sits  all  day  in 
his  arm  chair,  or  on  the  old  settle,  when  he  is  not 
out  walking  with  Gerty.  The  blow  came  sud- 
denly ;  struck  down  the  robust  man,  and  left  him 
feeble  as  a  child.  And  the  little  stranger,  the 
orphan  girl,  who,  in  her  weakness,  her  loneliness, 
and  her  poverty,  found  in  him  a  father  and  a 
mother,  she  now  is  all  the  world  to  him  —  his 
staff,  his  stay,  his  comfort,  and  his  hope.  During 
four  or  five  years  that  he  has  cherished  the  fraU 
blossom,  she  has  been  gaining  strength  for  the 
time  when  he  should  be  the  leaning,  she  the  sus- 
taining power  ;  and  when  the  time  came  —  and 
it  came  full  soon  —  she  was  ready  to  respond  to 
the  call.  With  the  simplicity  of  a  child,  but  a 
woman's  firmness ;  with  the  stature  of  a  child, 
but  a  woman's  capacity ;  the  earnestness  of  a 
child,  but  a  woman's  perseverance,  —  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  the  faithful  little  nurse  and  house- 
keeper labors  untiringly  in  the  service  of  her 
first,  her  best  friend.  Ever  at  his  side,  ever 
attending  to  his  wants,  and  yet  most  wonderfully 
accomplishing  many  things  which  he  never  sees 
her  do,  she  seems,  indeed,  to  the  fond  old  man, 
what  he  once  prophesied  she  would  become  — 
God's  imbodied  blessing  to  his  latter  years, 
making  light  his  closing  days,  and  cheering  even 
the  pathway  to  the  grave." 


The  summer  sun  was  brightly  glowing, 
The  summer  breezes  softly  blowing, 
When  Gerty  walked  with  Uncle  True, 
While  hoping  health  to  gain  anew. 

Full  many  watched  the  gentle  maiden, 
With  basket  for  her  dinner  laden, 
And  wondered  why,  each  pleasant  day, 
She  made  her  purchases  that  way. 


28 


UNCLE   TKUE   AND   LITTLE    GERTT. 


No  more  her  uncle  could  protect  her, 
But  she  rejoiced  he  yet  was  left  her, 
And  gladly  bade  him  on  her  lean, 
Presenting  picture  seldom  seen. 

And  Willie  to  the  old  man  hasted, 
Regarding  time  elsewhere  as  wasted  ; 
He  passed  away  from  maidens  fair, 
And  sought  a  kindly  deed  to  share. 

Alas !  that  with  the  coming  morrow 
There  came  for  Gerty  greater  sorrow  ;  — 
The  good  Lamplighter  passed  away, 
To  enter  heaven's  glorious  day. 

But  still  the  eye  that  never  slumbers, 
And  e'en  each  hair,  in  kindness,  numbers, 
The  eye  of  God,  her  heavenly  Friend, 
Watched  over  Gerty  to  life's  end. 


"  That  evening,  when  True  had  already  retired 
to  rest,  and  Gerty  had  finished  reading  aloud  in 
her  little  Bible,  as  she  always  did  at  bedtime, 
True  called  her  to  him,  and  asked  her,  as  he  had 
often  done  of  late,  to  repeat  his  favorite  prayer 
for  the  sick.  She  knelt  at  his  bedside,  and  with 
a  solemn  and  touching  earnestness,  fulfilled  his 
request. 

"  '  Now,  darlin',  the  prayer  for  the  dyin' ;  — 
isn't  there  such  a  one  in  your  little  book  ? ' 

"  Gerty  trembled.  There  was  such  a  prayer,  a 
beautiful  one ;  and  the  thoughtful  child,  to  whom 
the  idea  of  death  was  familiar,  knew  it  by  heart 
—  but  could  she  repeat  the  words  ?  Could  she 
command  her  voice  ?  Uncle  True  wished  to  hear 
it ;  it  would  be  a  comfort  to  him,  and  she  would 
try.  Concentrating  all  her  energy  and  self-com- 
mand, she  began,  and,  gaining  strength  as  she 
proceeded,  went  on  to  the  end.  Once  or  twice 
her  voice  faltered,  but  with  new  effort  she  suc- 
ceeded, in  spite  of  the  great  bunches  in  her 
throat,  and  her  voice  sounded  so  clear  and  calm 
that  Uncle  True's  devotional  spirit  was  not  once 
disturbed  by  the  thought  of  the  girl's  sufferings  ; 
for,  fortunately,  he  could  not  hear  how  her  heart 
beat  and  throbbed,  and  threatened  to  burst. 

"  She  did  not  rise  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
prayer  —  she  could  not —  but  remained  kneeling, 
her  head  buried  in  the  bed-clothes.  For  a  few 
moments  there  was  a  solemn  stillness  in  the 
room ;  then  the  old  man  laid  his  hand  upon  her 
head.  She  looked  up. 


"  '  You  love  Miss  Emily,  don't  you,  birdie  ? ' 

'"Yes,  indeed.' 

" '  You'll  be  a  good  child  to  her,  when  I'm 
gone  ? ' 

"  '  O,  Uncle  True,'  sobbed  Gerty,  '  you  musn't 
leave  me !  I  can't  live  without  you,  dear  Uncle 
True ! ' 

"  '  It  is  God's  will  to  take  me,  Gerty ;  he  has 
always  been  good  to  us,  and  we  musn't  doubt 
him  now.  Miss  Emily  can  do  more  for  you  than 
I  could,  and  you'll  be  very  happy  with  her.' 

"'No,  I  shan't!  —  I  shan't  ever-be  happy 
again  in  this  world  !  I  never  was  happy  until  I 
came  to  you ;  and  now,  if  you  die,  I  wish  I  could 
die  too ! ' 

"  '  You  mustn't  wish  that,  darlin' ;  you  are 
young,  and  must  try  to  do  good  in  the  world, 
and  bide  your  time.  I'm  an  old  man,  and  only  a 
trouble  now.' 

"  '  No,  no,  Uncle  True ! '  said  Gerty,  ear- 
nestly ;  '  you  are  not  a  trouble,  you  never  could 
be  a  trouble.  I  wish  fd  never  been  so  much 
trouble  to  you.' 

"  '  So  far  from  that,  birdie,  God  knows  you've 
long  been  my  heart's  delight.  It  only  pains  me 
now  to  think  that  you're  spending  all  your  time, 
and  slavin'  here  at  home,  instead  of  goin'  to 
school,  as  you  used  to ;  but,  O  !  we  all  depend 
on  each  other  so  —  first  on  God,  and  then  on 
each  other.  And  that  minds  me,  Gerty,  of  what 
I  was  goin'  to  say.  I  feel  as  if  the  Lord  would 
call  me  soon,  sooner  than  you  think  for  now ; 


Gerty  kneeling  by  Uncle  True. 


30 


UNCLE   TRUE   AND   LITTLE   GERTY. 


and,  at  first,  you'll  cry,  and  be  sore  vexed,  no 
doubt ;  but  Miss  Emily  will  take  you  with  her, 
and  she'll  tell  you  blessed  things  to  comfort  you ; 
how  we  shall  all  meet  again,  and  be  happy  in 
that  world  where  there's  .no  partin's ;  and  Wil- 
lie'll  do  every  thing  he  can  to  help  you  in  your 
sorrer ;  and  in  time  you'll  be  able  to  smile  again. 
At  first,  and  p'raps  for  a  long  time,  Gerty,  you'll 
be  a  care  to  Miss  Emily,  and  she'll  have  to  do  a 
deal  for  you  in  the  way  o'  schoolin',  clothin',  and 
so  on  ;  and  what  I  want  to  tell  you  is,  that  Uncle 
True  expects  you  to  be  good  as  can  be,  and  do 
just  what  Miss  Emily  says  ;  and,  by  and  by,  may 
be,  when  you're  bigger  and  older,  you'll  be  able 
to  do  somethin'  for  her.  She's  blind,  you  know, 
and  you  must  be  eyes  for  her ;  and  she  s  not  over 
strong,  and  you  must  lend  a  helpin'  hand  to  her 
weakness,  just  as  you  do  to  mine  ;  and,  if  you're 
good  and  patient,  God  will  make  your  heart  light 
at  last,  while  you're  only  tryin'  to  make  other 
folks  happy  ;  and  when  you're  sad  and  troubled, 
(for  every  body  is,  sometimes,)  then  think  of 


old  Uncle  True,  and  how  he  used  to  say,  Cheer 
up,  birdie,  for  I'm  of  the  'pinion  'twill  all  come 
out  right  at  last.  There,  don't  feel  bad  about 
it ;  go  to  bed,  darlin',  and  to-morrow  we'll  have 
a  nice  walk,  —  and  Willie's  goin'  with  us,  you 
know.' 

"  Gerty  tried  to  cheer  up,  for  True's  sake,  and 
went  to  bed.  She  did  not  sleep  for  some  hours ; 
but  when,  at  last,  she  did  fall  into  a  quiet  slum- 
ber, it  continued  unbroken  until  morning. 

"  She  dreamed  that  morning  had  already  come, 
that  she  and  Uncle  True  and  Willie  were  taking 
a  pleasant  walk;  that  Uncle  True  was  strong 
and  well  again  —  his  eye  bright,  his  step  firm, 
and  Willie  and  herself  laughing  and  happy. 

"  And,  while  she  dreamed  the  beautiful  dream, 
little  thinking  that  her  first  friend  and  she  should 
no  longer  tread  life's  path  together,  the  mes- 
senger came,  —  a  gentle,  noiseless  messenger,— 
and,  in  the  still  night,  while  the  world  was  asleep, 
took  the  soul  of  good  old  True,  and  carried  it 
home  to  God ! " 


If  the  reader  would*learn  more  of  Gerty's  after  life,  he  will  find  what  he 
wishes  in  perusing  "  THE  LAMPLIGHTER,"  a  most  excellent  book,  which  all 
should  read  ;  published  by 

JOHN   P.    JEWETT   &   CO.,   BOSTON. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  LOS  ANGELES 

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